


Cut Him out in Little Stars

by writeao3write



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming Out, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Oblivious Simon Snow, Oblivious Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, POV Alternating, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 16:16:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19276906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeao3write/pseuds/writeao3write
Summary: Simon Snow is the best actor Watford has ever seen. Baz Pitch is the best striker the Watford football team has ever seen.They're the kings of the school, but they hate each other. At least, they think they do.Baz has been secretly in love with Simon for years. Simon has always felt an inexplicable pull towards Baz. There's only one way to work out their feelings—a pretend relationship.A non-magical/pretend relationship AU that takes place in their final year at Watford, complete with angst, fluff, sour cherry scones, Pitch Manor, Romeo and Juliet, and more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters nor the fictional world they inhabit.
> 
> Happy reading!

#### Simon

“She said she wants to see other people,” I say. “What the bloody hell does that even mean, anyway? Seeother people. She sees other people all the time. Her parents are other people, her teachers are other people, you'reother people. So what the hell is she on about?” 

“I wish I was there with you,” says Penny. “I would give you a big hug and make you a cup of tea, and we would watch _Star Trek_  movies all night.” 

My desire to have exactly those things makes me groan. Well, almost exactly those things.

“You mean _Star Wars_ ,” I say, grinning. “And that tea better have been peppermint.”

“Of course, peppermint. And yes, I meant _Star Wars_. Please forgive my sci-fi ignorance, Simon Snow, Greatest of Nerds,” Penny teases.

“Hey! You’re supposed to be consoling me, not taking the mick.”

“Okay, okay,” she laughs. “I truly do wish I was there, Si. You know I love Agatha.” I’m about to interrupt, but she quickly goes on, “But I love you more, and I know how much this must suck for you. I promise I’ll be back before you know it to make you that tea.”

Penny’s voice and her genuine concern and her being thousands of miles away from me right now make me want to burst into tears. 

That is, until I hear the lock on my door open, followed by the door itself moments later.

My roommate must be done with football practice. 

He cannot see me like this. Hurt. Rejected. Vulnerable.

I clear my throat. “Thanks for the offer, Penny, but I’ll just wait until you get back. I’m sure I can survive a few more days of sines and cosines on my own.”

I hope Penny understands the situation from my tone and the not-so-secret code I used.

“What? Simon, what are you talking about? Sines and cosines? Are you struggling in geometry? Because you know I could tutor you,” she says, and my first thought is to hang up, apologize later. But I know I can’t do that. 

I look up. My roommate is staring at me.

Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. 

Honestly, I don’t think his name would sound any posher if his surname was Windsor and he had siblings called William and Harry. Excuse me, _ more posh_ (he would correct me if he could hear my thoughts).

He’s just too much. His body is too toned and tall and pale, he is too smart, his family are too rich. He’s too bloody good at every single thing he tries. 

His black hair is tied back in a ponytail. Beads of sweat drip down his neck.

“Something the matter, Snow?” he says, sneering. 

“No,” I say quickly, just as Penny says, “Oh, Baz is there. We'll talk later. Don’t let him get to you, Si. Just leave the room if it gets to be too much.”

Penny knows me better than anyone. She knows Baz and I are about to start fighting, but she doesn't know that a fight with Baz is just what I want.

“Talk soon. Thanks, Penny,” I say, and hang up.

“Oh, that was Bunce on the phone, was it? Was she calling to say she’d be staying in India permanently? That would be too much to hope for, don’t you agree?”

Baz and I hate each other. 

Well, that’s not exactly true. He hates me, and I hate that he hates me. So I hate him. Because it’s much easier to hate a person than an idea.

Baz has positively loathed me since the moment we met six years ago. Barely a day has gone by since then without us fighting.

Sometimes our fights are big—punches, bloody lips and noses—but other times we argue over small stuff, like who gets to shower first.

He’s a right git, and I love to wind him up.

“Not now, Tyrannus. I’m seriously not in the mood for your shit,” I say.

List of Sure-Fire Ways to Pick a Fight with Baz:  
1) Call him Tyrannus  
2) Say you’re not in the mood to fight

His nostrils flare and he flushes, but he recovers quickly.

“I should have known you would be unable to grasp even the most elementary geometric concepts. You really are a moron, Snow. I cannot, for the life of me, see how Meriweather continues to let you attend this fine institution.” 

The last part of what he says is laced with sarcasm. He doesn’t consider this or any other school to be “a fine institution”. He acts like he's too good for all of them.

But what he said struck a chord.

I’m not a great student, and I don't come from wealth like Baz or Agatha, whose parents give small fortunes to our school each year so that their children will grow up to give small fortunes to schools for theirchildren.

The only thing I'm good at is acting. Before I got here, the theatre department was sort of a joke, but now lots of people apply to Watford specifically for the theatre program. We've accepted a record number of drama students the last two years. They're not all Patti LuPones or Laurence Oliviers, but I'm proud of the little ragtag band of actors I've helped assemble.

I've had several offers from different casting directors to be in movies and plays, but I've turned them all down.

Fame is not something I want. I just love acting. Our small-budget school shows are enough for me.

I’m on an arts scholarship, though the headmaster dodges my questions whenever I ask about it. 

Headmaster Meriweather has liked me since my very first day, so Baz resents him nearly as much as he does me. Nearly.

“Yeah...Well…You stink,” I say, pinching my nose. “Christ. Didn’t your nanny teach you to bathe in that castle you grew up in? Or is it so old that it doesn’t even have running water?”

Is that the best I can do? I’m losing my touch.

“You know bloody well I only shower in the dorm,” he says. I hope I've embarrassed him (#3 on the list of Sure-Fire Ways to Pick a Fight with Baz). “Besides, I know why you're acting like this, Snow. Can I get you a tissue?” 

He smiles his most evil smile.

“Why would I need a tissue?” I say.

“Because Wellbelove broke up with you.”

My stomach drops out of my body. 

“We didn’t—how did you—?”

“How did I what, Snow? How did I know Wellbelove broke your heart? It seems she's wasted absolutely no time moving on. She came right down to the practice pitch and told the lot of us she was newly single. You should have seen her smile, Snow. I’ve never seen someone so happy. Though it is understandable, she had just gotten rid of _you_.”

“Fuck you,” I say, shoving him. He lets out a puff of air as his smile is replaced by a grimace.

He shoves me back. He's a few inches taller than me, but I’m stronger than he is. 

“What are you gonna do? Run to Meriweather like last time?” he says.

“I’ll break your stupid fucking knees, and then your stupid fucking football team won’t be able to win that stupid fucking tournament.”

That makes him pause. 

I want him to hit me. To smack me right on the mouth so we can go at it for real.

I close my eyes and wait for the first blow to come. Ten seconds, twenty. 

I hear shuffling, socks on carpet, and open my eyes to investigate. Baz is near his dresser, opening drawers and pulling out fresh clothes.

“Good lord, Snow. I didn’t know having your heart broken meant that you turned into a raging psychopath. I think I’ll leave you to it. I need to shower. You know, to wash the stink away.” 

Oh, no, you don’t. You’re not going anywhere.

“You know I know the real reason you refuse to shower in the locker rooms, right?” I say. “It's because you don't want any of your mates to see your boner.”

He freezes. 

“What?” he says, fake-laughing.

“You heard me. You're a bloody poof, Baz. That's why you won't let your mates see you shower.”

I hope the grin I’m wearing isn't too smug. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm sure my grin is just as smug as his would be if he were in my position.

The first punch is coming. I can see the violence in his eyes. I tense for a fight. 

But he deflates, all at once like a balloon. He drops his towel and falls to his knees.

That isn’t supposed to happen. We’re supposed to be bloody, well, _bloody_  by now.

I have waited more than three years to play the gay card on Baz, biding my time to use it at the perfect moment, and this is the reaction I get? 

Jesus, is he crying? 

 

####  Baz

“Are you crying?” Snow says.

Nobody but my Aunt Fiona knows about my affliction, as she jokingly refers to it. Not Dev, not Niall, not my parents nor the lads on the football team. 

And certainly not Snow. Never Snow. 

I have done everything in my power to make Snow think I'm straight short of shagging a girl in our dorm. I have even let him “accidentally” walk in on me while I was watching straight porn (that skullduggery took a fair bit of research. I am still repulsed by the memory of those videos).

So how can he possibly suspect me of being gay? 

Have I not always taken extra care to avoid looking at him when he walks around our dorm room shirtless? Do I not recoil from him as if burned any time we brush arms? 

How did I give myself away?

It doesn’t matter. 

Snow hates me and will inevitably spread the news around the school. 

The team will disown me. My father will disown me—I just know that bespectacled slug Meriweather will phone my parents the moment Snow tells him, and if my parents don’t pull me out of school, my life will still be unbearable. More unbearable than it already is.

I’ll have to endure whispers and slurs and probably physical harm from some of my more troglodytic classmates. 

There is nothing else for it. I’ll go to Fiona’s. She won’t turn me away.

My life as I know it is over.

I could charge at Snow. It might feel good. I’m quite sure it would feel good, actually, to storm across the room and land a few hard fists on his perfect face. 

But what is the point? He’s already won. He’s finally done what he’s been trying to do for years—knocked me out. So what if this particular punch wasn’t physical? It hurts worse than if it had been.

This will be my farewell gift to him, waving the white flag.

“You win, Simon,” I say, looking up at him.

“Win what?” he says, fear on his face. I never call him Simon. “Baz, I—”

“I’ll pack my things and go if you’ll just answer me this. How did you find out?”

He blushes. How I love it when he blushes. Just that shade of red mixed with just that shade of tan sets my heart ablaze. 

It is going to kill me not to be able to steal glances of Snow anymore. 

The way his mouth falls open when he sleeps, or how it goes all to one side when he is studying, or how he chews on his bottom lip when he’s nervous. 

“What do you mean you’ll go? Go where? Honestly, Baz, you don’t have to switch dorms or anything. I mean, I don’t care that you’re gay. How big of an arsehole do you think I am?” says Snow.

He doesn’t mind that I’m gay? 

How can I believe that? What if I trust him only for him to out me in front of the whole school? What does Simon Snow owe me?

My heart is beating through my chest and in my head. I can feel and hear the blood pumping inside me.

I could just brush the whole thing off. Non-action is sometimes the best course.

“The biggest one I’ve ever known,” I say, smirking. 

He offers me a hand, which I take, and he lifts me off the ground.

We are mere inches apart. 

The only time we stand this close is when we fight. It’s beyond awkward to be looking at him now without my biggest secret to shield me from his piercing blue eyes. 

“I promise not to tell…Using that against you in an argument, that was uncalled for. I’m, well, I’m sorry, Baz,” says Snow, and he gives me the most awkward hug anyone’s ever got.

Most of the awkwardness is my fault, I suppose. I go stiff as a board when I realize what’s happening. His warmth surprises me. He is like a fire, and when he pulls away I find myself inhaling his scent. He smells like cinnamon rolls.

“You’re so cold,” he says, grinning madly. 

That is my favorite smile of his. I don’t get to see it very often. Usually only when Bunce or Wellbelove says something affectionate. 

“I’m not cold, idiot. _You’re_  just hot!”

“Oh, I’m hot, am I?” he says, making his eyebrows waggle.

I hide my face in my hands and sit down on my bed. 

“Not like that, you div. I just mean that you’re like a furnace, Snow. How can you be that warm?”

He shrugs, which is what he always does when he doesn’t know the answer. He shrugs quite a lot. I don’t mind. I find his ignorance sort of adorable. 

He sits beside me on my bed, which ordinarily I would not allow, but given the circumstances, I let it slide.

“Listen, Baz—”

“No, you listen, Snow—”

“Let me speak!” he says. “I don’t want this to change anything. We can still hate each other, but if you ever feel like talking to someone about, you know,” he lowers his voice, “gay stuff, you can talk to me.” He grins, obviously pleased with his friendly offer.

“So you want to be my gay therapist, is that it?”

“Gay _stuff_  therapist,” he corrects me, smiling wider, burning up a piece of my heart. “And yes, that sounds about right.”

He sticks out a hand. I shake it. His hands are so soft.

“You never answered my question from before,” I say. “What gave me away?”

He rubs the back of his neck adorably. “I used to steal your iPad all the time to play games. Did you honestly think I wasn’t going to check your browsing history? I never thought you’d have a thing for drag queens.” Another wide smile.

“You little git!” I say, more angry than embarrassed. I jump up, but he’s way ahead of me. Snow runs into the bathroom and slams the door closed just before I get there.

“Come out here, Snow,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“No!” he yells over the sound of the tap. “I have to shower. You made me all sweaty when you hugged me.”

“You hugged me,” I shout back.

“Details,” he says, laughing.

I sit down against the door. My head is spinning from the emotional roller coaster ride Snow just forced me to ride.

Christ. What a disaster. 

And I thought tonight’s practice had been exhausting…

 

####  Simon

What was that? Did Baz and I just hug? 

Baz Pitch seriously just cried in front of me, told me I won, and then I hugged him. 

My roommate is gay. 

I mean, I already knew he was gay, but now he knows I know he’s gay.

My body is on auto-pilot. My hands grab the soap and shampoo while my mind is left to think about what just happened.

My roommate is now out of the closet. To me, at least. 

It was more like I dragged him out of the closet, which was very unfair of me. I’m going to have to keep apologizing for weeks.

I smile to myself knowing how much Baz is going to hate me apologizing to him. I’ll really go over the top just to annoy him even more. 

I can still mess with Baz the same way I always have. Nothing is going to change.

As much as I claim to hate Baz’s guts, I know deep down that we depend on each other. We are a huge part of each other’s routines here at school. 

He has his books, his football team, his violin, his fawning mates, and then he has me, who bickers with him and sometimes punches him. I have Penny, baking, Agatha, and the theatre program, and—

 _Had_  Agatha. Now all I have is Penny, acting, baking, and Baz. 

One of my five main things has been taken away. I’m so mad at Agatha for that.

If only I was gay. I could just date Baz. All my problems would be solved. 

He is a super fit bloke, after all. Half the school would probably jump his bones if they could. More than half the school, actually, since I’m sure some of the guys here have thought about it, not just the girls.

Looking down, I notice a certain body part of mine getting larger by the second—definitely a first for me, considering who I’ve been thinking about. 

My dick is growing for Baz.

Does that make me gay? 

I can’t be gay since I’m definitely attracted to Agatha. 

So what am I then? Bisexual? Pansexual? I’ve heard Penny mention that term, but I’m not exactly sure what it means. 

I’m in no state of mind to be answering tough life questions. I need to deal with this boner, and there’s only one way I know how (besides a cold shower, and I’m definitely not doing that).

Certainly Baz won’t miss a few squirts of his strawberry-scented conditioner, will he? It’s so smooth, and I love the way it smells. 

It reminds me of him, and I often use it to wank with. I sometimes use it on my hair so he doesn’t suspect my true motivation for stealing it. He has never confronted me about it, and he confronts me about everything, so he must not notice.

I picture his face if he ever finds out what I’ve been using his conditioner for, and that makes me so hard.

_ “Snow!” he would roar, rushing out of the bathroom in just a towel. “Have you been using my conditioner to wank with?!” _

_He would pin  me against the wall, our faces inches apart._

_ “So what if I have?” I would say. “I’m sexually repressed, and I don’t have a girlfriend anymore. What else would you suggest?” _

_ “How about buying your own bloody conditioner?” he would snarl. _

_“I like yours,” I would lean in and whisper into his ear. “It turns me on to wank with your conditioner. To touch myself with the same stuff you put in that perfect hair of yours.” _

_ I would reach out and run my fingers through his wet hair. My whispering would give him goose pimples, and my words would make him melt. _

_ “You…I...That’s not…” He’d be the one floundering for once. _

_ “I’ll stop doing it,” I’d say. “But you have to get me off. Or I can do you. I’m not picky, Basil.” _

_ That would be so sexy, calling him Basil. _

_ And he would call me Simon. _

_“Simon, please ,” he would whine into my shoulder. He would lean on me, to keep himself from spinning around the room._

_ “Please, what, babe?” I would say. “Is this what you want?”  _

_And I would bring his hand down to my crotch, leading him to unbutton my pants, reach into my boxers. He would wrap his thin deft fingers around my hard cock and —_

“Gah!” My body spasms with pleasure as I come all over the shower. 

It’s one of the best orgasms I’ve had in a long time, and it’s all thanks to Baz. And Agatha. I don’t think I would have conjured up that little fantasy if she hadn’t broken up with me. 

My body is still buzzing as I step back into our bedroom. I avoid looking at Baz, who is lying on his stomach reading a paperback in the middle of our room.

I can’t tell whether he looks up when I walk by. I’m trying not to look at him. I hope I’m not blushing. 

 

####  Baz

I hear the shower turn off. I have to move quickly. Snow will be coming out soon. 

_ Coming out_ , I smile to myself, grabbing a book and lying on my stomach in the middle of the room. 

I do not want him to suspect the truth, that I spent the whole time Snow was showering picturing Snow showering. 

His hard wet body, his adorable curls, his tawny skin and cute little moles. It’s all too much. He’s too much.

Not for the first time the Snow in my fantasy was responsible for inspiring in me a rather violent orgasm, one that left me feeling hazy and sated. 

I had to use a perfectly clean sock to clean up the mess, and even though I chose to wank, I can’t help feeling pissed at Snow for arousing me in the first place (and soiling my sock).

Old habits die hard, they say. 

Even though Snow and I had some unprecedented heart-to-heart just now, I still hate him for so many reasons. His perfect smile, acting skills, musical laugh, total selflessness—every part of him seems to be of a divine plan. 

His perfection is inescapable. He makes it impossible to hate him. That is why I hate him.

Another way to phrase it is I’m madly in love with him, and I mean that literally—I often think I will go insane with desire. Sometimes my body physically aches when I think of Snow’s lips, or his arms, or his ankles. 

“Your turn,” Snow says.

I intentionally angled my face away from the door, so I would not have to see Snow’s shirtless form when he came back in the room.

Alas, I am a weak creature, and I look at him now in his full dripping-wet glory. 

Beads of water fall from his curls. He has hard nipples and goose pimples. I feel myself getting hard again. 

This is not good. 

“My turn?” I say, attempting indifference.

“To shower,” he says.

“Oh. Right,” I say, hoping I am not so hard that my erection will be apparent through my football shorts. 

I subtly look down and am pleased to find that my bulge is relatively flat. I walk into the bathroom and shut the door, leaning against it to catch my breath.

What is wrong with me? 

The boy I’ve lived with for years has made me swoon twice and come once in the space of 20 minutes. 

_ Grimms are made of stronger stuff than that_ , I hear my father’s voice inside my head.

In the mirror I see myself, pale but for my red cheeks and ears. Football practice, residual embarrassment, clandestine arousal, it might have been any one of these that reddened my face, or it might have been all three. 

Reality is abruptly swept away by the broom of my imagination as I appraise myself in the mirror.

I see Snow standing behind me. He is nude and so am I. He is peppering open-mouthed kisses onto my shoulder. 

It feels as though the front half of my body is trying desperately to detach itself from the back half, to melt into the mirror, to make my fantasy come true. It is a rather unpleasant sensation.

I want to punch the mirror, to break it and never see that unattainable image again. 

No. I want to fight for my fantasy until my dying breath.

I do wish the Snow in my fantasy would put some clothes on; he's making it very hard to stay soft.

_ Clothes _ . I forgot to bring a change of clothes with me into the bathroom. 

I unlock the door and re-enter the dormitory, only to be met with the sight of Snow’s bare arse. This time for real.

Snow whips around. 

“What the hell, Baz!?”

I am trying harder than I have ever tried at anything not to look at his penis. I fail miserably.

I see him see me see it before he throws both hands southward to cover up like the good Christian boy he is. 

Is Snow even a Christian? I don’t know.

“Sorry...I...Clothes,” I splutter, grabbing the clean clothes I left on my bed. “Sorry,” I say again, not looking behind me as I all but sprint back to the bathroom.

Is it not enough that Snow just wrenched me out of the proverbial closet and offered to be my “gay stuff” therapist? 

The universe must torment me further with the knowledge of how Snow looks naked, just exactly how his thighs meet his bum, just exactly how much hair he has _down there_. 

Am I destined never to have a pure thought about Snow again? How the bloody hell am I to face him after that little episode?

It’s not too late to run away. Fiona’s place is still an option. It will always be an option.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. 

Good God. Snow was right when he told me I stank.  

A shower will fix that problem. The only problem worrying me right now is the same one as always: Simon Snow.

 

####  Simon

There is an itch inside my head—a Pitch inside my head—that I can’t get rid of.

Baz has always seemed like a chirping cricket to me (if a cricket had fists). He chirps and chirps; sometimes it’s annoying and sometimes it’s an ambient, dependable presence. 

I surprise myself with how turned on I am by the idea of Baz showering in the very same shower I just wanked in. The naughtiness of it drives me wild.

I consider myself a pretty boring person sexually—the most Agatha and I ever tried was me using my fingers on her, and her using her mouth on me, and neither of those ended well. 

As I imagine licking every part of Baz’s body, though, I begin to reconsider. Maybe I’m not as boring as I thought.  

I’m not mad at Agatha anymore. If she was unhappy with our relationship, it’s because I’m a shitty boyfriend—was a shitty boyfriend. I always tried to put her needs first, only I never knew what her needs were. 

If I got her a tea, she wanted coffee. If I massaged her shoulders after a stressful day, she just wanted to be left alone. When she voiced an opinion, I tried to agree with her so as not to upset her. 

Couples fight, she said. Didn’t I find it odd that we never yelled at each other, that we never had arguments or disagreements, even over small things? 

And to be honest, the answer was no. I did not find it odd because it was by design. I thought she thought our relationship was perfect. A boyfriend you never fight with, what could be better? 

A lot, apparently. Which is fine. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I’ll always love Agatha, even if this will make the rest of our time at Watford a bit awkward. I’m sure that will pass in time.

It’s Baz that worries me now.

The two of us have a habit of saying the cruelest thing possible to each other during our fights. Penny calls it going for the jugular. Baz has always done it, and I guess I sort of just picked it up from him. 

The first few years I would just storm out of our room and find Penny and cry, but then I realized Baz had baggage just like I did.

No, he isn’t an orphan and he doesn’t get tongue tied like I do, but he craves his father’s approval—he craves everyone’s approval, that’s why he works so hard at football, so our peers will admire him—and he is deathly afraid that people will find out he’s gay, and I took his secret away from him like it was no big deal, just another climax in another fight. 

Except it isn’t. This is huge. For him and for me. 

Part of me is glad I outed him. 

I hate that Baz has had to hide such a big part of himself for so long, and in our room—the one place at school where he should be able to be himself. His true self.

Baz would probably scoff if he heard what I’m thinking. He would probably say “I’m more than a label, Snow. What business is it of yours, anyway? Fuck off.” 

He is so much more than a label. It gets tiring having to pretend I hate him all the time.

Another part of me is mortified, though.

I took the single most vulnerable part of Baz’s life and waved it around in front of him, put it under a microscope, squashed it, made him watch. It makes me sick to think that I’m capable of doing something so cruel.

I have to make it up to him. To make him feel accepted, at least.

I want him to smile at me. I don’t know if he has ever genuinely smiled at me before. 

That’s my new goal, to make Baz Pitch smile at me.

 

####  Baz

Simon is pretending to sleep when I’m done with my shower. We’ve both done this sort of thing before, usually after fights. 

I have the unsettling feeling that I’ll spontaneously combust if I have to look Snow in the eye. 

There is no better way for me to thank Snow for feigning sleep than trying fall asleep myself. 

I get into bed and turn off my lamp, and when I close my eyes I see film after film playing in my head. Every one of them has a 2-person cast and an 18-rating. 

I fall asleep with another erection. One of the most painful erections of my life.

####  Simon

I fall asleep with a raging boner. I would normally just say fuck it and wank again, but I am pretending to be asleep for Baz. 

####  Baz

I wake to the smell of something delicious, which is odd, given that our dorm doesn’t have any sort of kitchen attachment.

Snow is the first thing I see when I open my eyes, which isn’t unusual (I like to watch him when he sleeps). The fact that he’s awake and dressed, though, is unusual. 

I look at my alarm clock. 7:43 AM. Jesus, why is he up so early?

“What are you doing?” I say. 

“Oh, you’re up,” he says, punctuated with a little smile.

“I say again, Snow. What are you doing?” I refuse to let him off the hook simply because he smiled. Even if I would move mountains to see him smile like that every morning.

“Well, I sort of, um, got you breakfast,” he says, placing a takeaway box on my lap and a cup of coffee on my nightstand.

I open the box. Sausage. Eggs. Beans. 

“This isn’t from the dining hall,” I frown.

“No,” he agrees, “it’s from that place you like. That cafe with all the books.”

I sit with my mouth open for I don’t know how long. He has actually shocked me into speechlessness with his kindness. This is a first. 

I didn’t know anyone knew I liked that place. My special place. It’s called The Catacombs—don’t ask me why—and I love everything about it. The food, the coffee, the dusty rugs and ancient armchairs. And the books. Good Lord, the books! I like to go there and marathon-read multiple works by the same author. I’ll have Shakespeare Sundays or Woolf Wednesdays. 

I’m not sure how Snow knows about it. I’ve always thought Snow to be unobservant. That clearly is not true.

“I didn’t spit in it or anything. It’s a peace offering. It’s just, well, it’s the least I could do. After everything, you know, everything that happened,” he splutters, grimacing, unaware just how floored I am by all of this. 

Secrecy has always come easily to me. No one besides Fiona knows much about me. I fear I’ll soon be forced to add Snow to that list, given how much I did not know he knows about me, though I would sooner die than tell him that. 

I look at him, and I want to rub away the creases in his forehead, make sure he never has to worry about anything ever again. That is, unfortunately, not how things work with us.

I push the box away and hold out the coffee.

“You eat it,” I say. “It would be too weird if I ate it.”

“But I bought it for you,” he protests, looking as if he might cry if I don’t eat his stupid thoughtful breakfast.

“Snow,” I say, wondering for the first time in my life how to let him down easy.

“Can’t you ever just call me Simon?” he asks.

“Simon,” I say, “it’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. It’s just, well, we’re not mates. We’re never going to be mates. What happened last night was...I’d just as soon act as if it never happened. I’m not so naive as to think that things between us will be exactly as they were, but you certainly cannot be doing things like bringing me bloody breakfast in bed.”

“Bringing me bloody breakfast in bed,” he laughs. “Say that five times fast. Bringing me bloody breakfast in bed, bringing me bloody bleakfast in bred.” 

I fight the urge to laugh. There’s that smile of his again. 

“I’m serious,” I say, although he’s making it very difficult for that to be true. 

_ Difficult _ . Snow is the most difficult person I’ve ever known.

“Why can’t we be?” he says.

“Why can’t we be what?” I say. I have only been awake a few minutes and already I am exhausted with him.

“Mates.”

Because I’m hopelessly in love with you, idiot. With your lips and your eyebrows and your thighs and the way you are always exceedingly kind even when there’s no call for it. 

We can never be mates because it would be too painful for me. To be that close to you and never have you. It would eat me up, burn me up from the inside. 

“We just can’t, Snow. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is,” I say, handing the cup and box to him.

“Goddamnit, Baz. You’re unbelievable. Even when I try to do something nice for you, you fight me on it. Just eat the food. Please. If you’re so determined to hate me, then fine. But I already bought it, and you know I don’t eat meat, so I’ll have to throw it away if you don’t eat it.” 

He offers the box and cup back to me, and I take them because I’m feeling nice, because I don’t want to waste food, because, despite what he thinks, I am so deeply in love with him that I would do literally anything he asked me to do. And The Catacombs do a fucking fantastic breakfast.

“Thank you,” I say, after several minutes of silence. 

“You’re welcome,” he says, smiling again, making my chest ache. I take a sip of coffee. 

“So I was thinking last night,” he says.

“A dangerous prospect,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he says, shaking his head. “I was thinking, seeing as how I’m you’re gay stuff therapist, I might be able to help you come out of the closet for real.”

I do not know what I expected when he said he had been thinking, but it was most decidedly not that.

“You're not my gay stuff—” I start to say before he cuts me off. 

“All you need is a boyfriend. Someone to hold hands with in the halls. Someone who people admire, so you won’t get bullied. Someone who, maybe, down the line, you could bring home to meet your parents. If you had someone by your side, coming out might not be so hard,” he finishes, looking very pleased that he got through his little speech without stammering.

What a brilliant plan, Snow. Yes, let me just conjure up an ideal boyfriend out of thin air, shall I? 

I laugh internally at how simple the world is in Snow’s eyes. 

Oh, you’re gay, Baz? You’re in the closet? All you need is a boyfriend. Did you ever think of that?

I have thought of it a million times, and in every one of those scenarios my boyfriend was you, Snow. You gorgeous moron. 

I can never have that, and I’m not about to date some random bloke just to make coming out easier. Grimms are made of stronger stuff than that.

“That’s… an idea,” I say, trying with all my might to keep the judgment out of my voice.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, and I highly doubt that. “You’re probably thinking I’m an idiot.” Right in one. “I mean, if boyfriends were easy to come by, you’d already have one, wouldn’t you?” Yes and no. “But here’s the part I left out. It doesn’t have to be a _real_  boyfriend. A fake boyfriend would work just as well. You and him would only have to _pretend_  to be dating.”

It seems I underestimated Snow. His plan is even dumber than I thought. Where on earth am I going to find someone to be my fake boyfriend?

“And, I thought, you know, since Agatha broke up with me,” he says, rubbing his neck, and there’s no fucking way he’ll say what I think he’s about to say. “Maybe, um, I could do it. Be your fake boyfriend, I mean.” Blood rushes to his cheeks faster than ever before. 

“What?” I say, sounding way less surprised than I actually am. I’m probably redder than he is.

“Think about it. You and me would be an even bigger power couple than me and Agatha were. You’re the star of the football team, I’m the star of the theatre program. It’ll be great. After a week, no one will even care that you’re gay. They’ll just care that we’re together. And then after a while we “break up” (he does air quotes), and boom, you’re out of the closet.”

I find myself agreeing with everything he just said but for one problem.

“But you aren’t gay, Snow.” I say this like I would explain to a two-year-old why he cannot fly. _But you don't have wings_. 

I don’t mean to sound so condescending; he just brings it out of me.

“I don’t have to be gay for the plan to work. Remember? It’s all fake, anyway,” he says, smirking like he’s won the argument, which he sure as hell has not.

“Back up a bit, Snow. Breakfast in bed is one thing, but fake dating each other? Jesus. How the hell did you come up with this asinine idea?”

“It’s not asinine, _Basil_. It’s brilliant,” he says firmly.

He has just offered me everything I’ve ever wanted. Well, not quite. He has offered me more than I ever thought I would get, that’s for sure. To walk down Watford’s halls holding Simon Snow’s lovely hand, that’s not something I ever thought I would get to do, and it makes my heart warm to think of doing it now. 

I'm moments away from smacking him or snogging him, and neither of those is a very good option.

Deflect. Make him laugh. Regroup. 

“Your first day as my gay therapist, and already you’re coming on to me. You make quick work of things, Snow. I’ll give you that.”

“Baz,” he says warningly. 

“What? You cannot seriously expect me to entertain this lunacy. Snow, we’re sworn enemies.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he says.

Another chance to change the subject. Thank you, Snow.

“You’re one to talk. Didn’t you once write a letter to the board of governors demanding that I be expelled because I vacuumed our room? You said I showed, what was the phrase you used, a total disregard for your personal space, wasn't it?”

“I don’t want to fight,” he says.

Shit. Humor failed. If he won’t fight with me now, leaving is my only other option. 

So, that’s what I do.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” I say, standing up. I put on a sweater and trainers and leave the room, taking my breakfast with me.

 

####  Simon

This isn’t the first time Baz has stormed out, and it surely will not be the last. 

He’s a runner, I’m a stayer. Is stayer a word? Who cares? It's just yet another way Baz and I are complete opposites.

I don’t know where I got the gall to actually suggest fake-dating him. There’s no way that would work.

Less than a day ago, Baz and I were—there wasn’t really a word for what we were. Sworn enemies was dramatic, like I told Baz. Nemesis was a comic book word, so that was out. Fire and water maybe? Fire and ice? 

Maybe there was no name for what we were. 

We were simply Baz and Simon—two guys destined to never get along. But for the life of me I don’t see why we have to be.

I'm a nice person, and I think I'm okay once you get to know me. I'm bloody brilliant at baking. I'd like to see how much Baz hates me after trying one of my sour cherry scones. I should make some for him.

Make some for him?!  What's gotten into me?

My feelings have been in a weird knot since last night. I need to sort them out.

Two years ago on Christmas I got an anonymous gift—this really nice leather-bound notebook. I think Headmaster Meriweather got it for me, but I’ve never asked because I don’t want him to get in trouble, or embarrass myself if I’m wrong.

I write in it sometimes, whenever I’m confused or scared.

I grab the notebook and draw a line down the center of a blank page, making two columns. Above the first column I write “Reasons I Like Baz”, and above the second I write “Reasons I Hate Baz.”

What do I like about Baz?

 _He’s smart_ , I write. (Far smarter than me. He’s currently ranked second in our class, behind Penny of course.)

 _He reads_. (Sort of the same as being smart, but not quite. There’s lots of different kinds of intelligence, and I like that Baz loves books.)

 _He is good at football_. (I pretend not to be impressed by Baz’s football skills, but I still go to every game. Sometimes I think he looks up at me from the pitch. Why would he look at me, though?)

 _His hair_. (I like when it’s dry and when it’s wet. I like when it’s slicked back, and I like when he pulls it into a ponytail, but I especially like when he lets it fall around his face.)

 _He’s nice when he thinks no one is looking_. (I saw him walk a lost first-year girl to her dorm once. And another time I saw him pay for another student’s lunch, a student he didn’t even know.)

 _He likes that cafe with all the books_. (That place is so cozy, and it shows a softer side of Baz’s personality.)

 _He is mysterious_. (I never know what he’s thinking. Sometimes it’s maddening, but other times it’s intriguing.)

 _His voice_. (It’s posh and proper and a bit pompous, and I love it. It emanates from somewhere deep inside him, like Richard Burton’s voice, only not so heavy. I lived for those months in our second year when his voice was changing.)

 _He’s gay_. (This is a weird one. I shouldn’t like that Baz is gay, but I do. Why should I like or dislike someone because of who they’re attracted to? I guess I like that he’s already worked out that part of who he is.)

 _His body_. (His hands, thin and certain and strong. His jaw, sharp like a knife. His eyes, calm and piercing. His legs, stomach, forearms, feet. He’s extremely well put together. I can look at him objectively and say he is clearly the best looking bloke at our school.)

 _He’s a great violinist_. (I discovered this years ago. I found video recordings of him playing violin on his iPad. He’s incredible.)

I look back at what I’ve written. Seems like a good stopping point. Now, onto the reasons I hate him.

Ten minutes pass and I’ve got nothing.

I write _He pushed me down the stairs once_ , but then I cross it out. I know for a fact that him pushing me down the stairs was an accident. Besides, I hit him first that time. I am not innocent, and neither is he.

 _He’s rich_ , I write. (His family is loaded. One of his football teammates is in Drama with me, and he told me Baz’s house is basically a castle, and they have, like, ten cars.)

I cross that one out, too. It’s not Baz’s fault that he comes from a wealthy family any more than it’s my fault I’m an orphan.

A question hangs in my mind, and it is not _Why do I hate Baz?_ but _Why does Baz hate me?_

So I write it down in the second column. I close the notebook and get dressed. 

It’s time for breakfast. Though I guess I’ll be eating alone, since Penny is gone and Agatha is not my friend anymore. Maybe we’re still friends. I don’t know. 

I sigh as I leave our door room, resigned to having a shitty, lonely day.

 

####  Baz

After my Snow-induced panic attack, I finish the breakfast he bought me—even cold it is still quite good—and head down to the dining hall to avoid going back to the dorm.

It’s Saturday. We have no classes, which is nice, but it means avoiding Snow will be harder than usual. 

I assume he’ll hole himself up in our dorm all day, since Bunce is gone and Wellbelove dumped him. 

I want more than anything to put his head on my chest and let him cry the pain away. Stroke his perfect hair, whisper reassurances into his ear.

“Someone must have had a late night,” says Dev, sitting down across from me.

“What makes you say that?” I say, worried that he knows what happened between me and Snow.

“It’s almost 9 o’clock. You’re usually done with breakfast by the time I get here.”

“Ah, yes. Well, practice ran a bit late. And bloody Snow was in the shower when I got back to the dorm, and you know how he takes forever.”

“I heard Agatha broke up with him,” Dev says, in the secret but loud voice characteristic of the common gossip.

I say nothing. He takes this as a confirmation.

“Well,” he says, “was Simon really torn up about it?”

“I dunno, Dev,” I say. “We didn't really talk about it. We don’t talk much at all.”

“I know, I know,” Dev says. “I just had to ask. I think I might ask Agatha on a date.”

Dev is a fine looking bloke, I guess. He is not unattractive, and he’s funny. Warm, you might even say. Apart from him and Niall, I don’t really have any friends. 

My mates on the team are not my real mates. They will high-five me when I score, but that doesn’t make us friends.

I’m a good enough student that I should have teachers I’m friendly with, but I don’t. My mother was headmistress here before she died, and Meriweather seems to believe I’m a mastermind with designs of getting him sacked, a belief he has evidently managed to inculcate in the rest of the faculty because every one of them looks at me like I’m a vampire or something.

Dev and Niall, they're all I really need. More accurately, I think they're all I’m capable of having. Friendship is a lot of effort for me. I can’t open up to them about being gay or about Snow, so I usually just end up sitting with them while they prattle on about anything and everything.

I look across the room and see Wellbelove eating with a few girls in the year below us. She is looking our way. She has a thing for me. That’s not me being conceited; she’s made it explicitly clear to me that this is the case. 

Snow has often suspected her of having a crush on me, and it’s been a source of more than a few fights between us. I have managed to politely spurn Wellbelove’s advances thus far, but I can’t avoid her forever, especially since she and Snow are no longer a thing.

He and I could be, though. A thing. A fake thing. I wonder what it would feel like to hold his hand during mealtimes. I could learn to use my fork with my left hand.

I shake my head to dislodge my thoughts.

“She’s looking over here,” I interrupt whatever Dev is saying. I haven’t been listening.

He goes immediately red in the face.

“She is?” he says. “Do you think she fancies me?”

No is the honest answer. I am sure Agatha does not fancy Dev, but I see little point in telling him this, crushing his hopes. Lying is the better option.

“Perhaps she does,” I say. “There’s only one way to find out.”

The look on his face is equal parts excited and afraid. “How should I do it?” he says.

“Don’t make it some big thing,” I say. “Just pull her aside and ask her.”

I do not know whether this is good advice. Maybe Wellbelove appreciates grand gestures. It’s just that if Dev were to go big and then get rejected, that would hurt him even more than a normal rejection, and I don’t want that.

He begins to stand up, and I pull him down.

“Not now,” I say. I do not want the entire lunchroom to witness his inevitable rejection. “Ask her between classes or something.”

“Why not now?” he says.

“Well for one thing she’s only been single a day. You’ll come off looking rude. And for another thing, she’s surrounded by other girls. It’d be best to catch her alone.”

“Wow. Who would’ve thought you were such a ladies man?” he says.

_Everyone but Snow_ , I think bitterly.

Just as I think his name, I see Snow walking away from the serving table, his plate piled high with food. Snow can eat as much as he wants—which is quite a lot—and never gain weight. 

It’s one of the few parts of his personality to which I’m not attracted. He shoves food into his mouth without worry of taste, texture, or any of the other pleasures that come with eating like a civilized human being. 

It is not cute, but he is.

He’s looking at Wellbelove’s table. Surely he’s not stupid enough to sit there. He looks away, down, dejected.

It hurts me to see him in pain, but what I can I do? 

Without Wellbelove and Bunce, I don’t know where he’ll sit. 

He looks towards my table. We lock eyes. He seems to be making a second appeal to be my faux beau, this time it's wordless and even harder to say no. 

Nonetheless, I shake my head infinitesimally. Snow grimaces and so do I, powerless to stop the pain my rejection of him is inflicting on me, though I know in my heart it would be far more painful to say yes.

Dev notices nothing, not that that surprises me. I’m still watching Snow as he does a slow turn, surveying the dining hall for a place to sit, but then he does something I don’t expect. 

He walks into the kitchen.

 

####  Simon

If I can’t eat with Agatha or Penny or even Baz, then I’ll eat with Ebb.

She’s the head chef at our school and my oldest friend (in both senses of the word). 

I met her during my tour of Watford as an 11-year-old. Headmaster Meriwether had taken me through the kitchens just as Ebb was pulling out a freshly baked tray of blueberry scones. I had one bite and fell in love, both with the scones and the lady who baked them. 

It was Ebb who taught me to bake.

“Ebb?” I say, over the din of the kitchen. 

The workers don’t pay me much mind. They’re used to me being back here, though I’m pretty sure students are not supposed to do this. They all know I’m friends with Ebb.

“Is that my boy?” says a voice from the walk-in freezer. I can practically hear the smile in her voice. 

Ebb emerges in a cloud of chilly condensation, holding a large cardboard box, which she sets down on the metal work table in front of her. “How’ve you been, love?” she says, grabbing me up in a hug, even though I’m holding a full plate of food.

Of all the hugs I’ve had, I like Ebb’s best. She squeezes super tight, and she’s really small but her hugs pack a huge punch. But this hug is unsettling, the cold from the freezer still clings to her.

“Oh!” I say, surprised. “You’re so cold.” I blush, thinking of how I said the same thing to Baz last night.

She swipes a hand through the air dismissively and says, “Damn freezer. That spineless bastard Meriweather is making me switch to frozen scones. Budget, budget, budget. It’s all about money with that miser,” she frowns. I can tell how disappointed she is, for the students as much as for herself. “This is a school, not a restaurant, he says.”

The only thing Ebb and I ever disagree about is the headmaster. She hates him, I like him. He’s been nothing but good to me, and supposedly nothing but bad to her.

I appreciate that Ebb trusts me enough not to tell the headmaster she called him a spineless bastard. She’s a great friend.

Penny and Agatha find it odd that I’m friends with someone twenty years older than us, not to mention a staff member. I don’t see what’s so odd about it. It’s as easy as being friends with Penny or Agatha. Easier, in some ways.

A stab of sorrow shoots through me as I think of Penny and Agatha and I laughing together. It’s not even a real memory, merely a broken image that makes me want to crawl back into bed and stay there all day.

“What’s wrong?” Ebb says. “Was it the Meriweather thing?” she sandwiches my hand between both of hers and pats it apologetically. “You know I was just blowing off steam.”

As she pulls back I notice her tattoos—two baby goats, one on the inside of each wrist, a matching pair. She’s had them since before I met her. 

Ebb adores goats. She grew up on a farm with lots of goats. I know her brother died a while ago, and he loved goats, too. I don’t like to ask about it because I know it makes her upset.

“What?” I say. It’s so hard for me to focus on anything right now. “No, it’s not that. I mean, I wish you wouldn’t badmouth the headmaster, but no. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” I sigh. “Agatha broke up with me.” 

“Oh, Simon,” she says, putting more warmth into those two words than anyone else in the world possibly could. “How do you feel about it?”

“Not great,” I say.

She snorts. “A rather large understatement, I’d say.”

“It’s just, well, I always thought Agatha and I would end up together. Like, actually end up together. A house, family, dogs, cats, birds, fish, horses. The whole bit.”

“You two were going to be running a third-rate zoo, I take it?” she says.

We stare at each other before we burst out laughing at the same time. 

This is why I came to see her. Ebb has an almost magical knack for making me feel better.

“No, Agatha would be too worried about the animals messing up her hair.”

We laugh again.

“Seriously, Simon,” Ebb says. “Is that really what you want? A future with Agatha? Really think about it for a moment. Is that what you actually want?”

“Yes,” I say, without thinking. I don’t like to think. I mess things up when I think. Case in point: offering to be Baz’s fake boyfriend. That went over so well. 

I go on, “Well, I don’t know. Maybe not. That’s just been the image I had for my future since we started dating. It seemed like a perfect match.”

“Well it _seems like_  that’s no way to live your life,” she says. “You’ve got to figure out what you want. You, Simon. Not Meriweather or Penelope or Agatha or anyone else. Just you.”

“But how?” I say. She makes it sound so simple.

“It’s something only you have the power to do. I’ll tell you a good place to start,” she says. “Picture your break-up with Agatha as the final page of a book. From this moment on that book is finished. You’re writing a new book now. You have hundreds of pages to fill up with new experiences, new people, new places. Somewhere along the line, you’ll think of the perfect ending. The one you truly want. That’s what I did after Nicky died, and it led me here.”

I expect her eyes to be teary when I look up, but they’re not. The look on her face is proud and resolved.

“A new book?” I say.

“A new book,” she says, and she smiles. 

I smile too, thinking of all the things I might write.

 

####  Baz

I am bored. 

I get bored easily on the weekends. Usually I’ll go to the library and read, or read in our dorms or at The Catacombs, but I don’t feel much like reading. 

My thoughts are too loud at the moment. 

I hear _SNOOOOOOOOOOW! SNOOOOOOOOOOW!_ in my head like a war siren. 

The imbecile outed me last night. Hugged me. Appointed himself my “gay stuff” therapist. Bought me breakfast from my favorite cafe. Offered to fake-date me.

What is my life right now?

In my experience only one thing (besides alcohol) is capable of silencing thoughts like these: Exercise. Running, heavy lifting, strenuous physical activity.

I pop back to the dorm room knowing Snow won’t be there and change into my running gear.

Minutes later I’m flying over the pavement, listening to a running playlist on my phone.

“Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine comes on, and it’s just the song I need to hear.

I concentrate on nothing but the music and pumping my legs harder with each passing stride.

_The dog days are over_  
_The dog days are done_  
_Can't you hear the horses_  
_'Cause here they come_  
  
_And I never wanted anything from you_  
_Except everything you had_  
_And what was left after that too, oh_

I slow to a walk. I’m thinking of Snow. 

Of course I am.

I never wanted anything from him except everything he had. 

Perhaps that's backwards. When Snow volunteered to be my fake boyfriend, he thought he was helping me out, but in reality he was asking for everything I had.

It would be easy, so easy, to give it to him, and deal with the consequences later. 

It gets stuffy in this closet sometimes.

I am not ashamed of being gay, but I am afraid of what will happen once people know I’m gay. 

My father will probably be furious. Daphne will be fine with it. Mordelia won’t care in the least. I like to think it won’t make a difference to Dev and Niall, but I really don’t know. The team might kick me off, although I doubt it. They need me and they know it. 

I think I could live with what comes if I had Snow by my side. Only I won’t. It will all be as fake and empty as the life I live now.

Not that my current life is particularly interesting. I’m a closeted rich kid who reads a lot and plays football. My life is hardly a best-seller in the making.

I’ve delayed coming out for years. I’ve let everyone else force me into this prison, and my roommate, whom I openly hate but secretly love, has given me a Get Out Of Jail Free card. 

I should take it. I will take it.

I would get to hold Snow’s hand, hug him, touch his cheek, kiss him in public if I’m very lucky. The hormonal monster in me rears its perverse head and roars.

Imagine that. Me, kissing Simon Snow. 

Are his lips as warm as the rest of him? What do they taste like? 

Running was supposed to clear my head, but it’s had the opposite effect. Far from silencing my hyperactive thoughts, it has amplified them—targeted the most frenetic ones and put them under a microscope.

I make the decision for better or worse. I am going to fake-date Simon Snow.

Bring on the pleasure and pain.

I start running again, back towards school, towards Snow. I cannot stop myself smiling as I think of what the next few weeks have in store for me.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's Chapter 1. 
> 
> I'll tell you, this whole writing fanfiction thing is harder than it seems. Much harder.
> 
> Stay tuned for Chapter 2.
> 
> Enjoy your life until then. Please.


	2. Chapter 2

#### Simon

I'm sitting at my desk when Baz walks in our room. He looks like he’s been running.

I like the sweaty look on Baz. A lot.

I’m surprised to see him. I thought he would avoid the dorm all weekend. That’s his m.o. whenever things get to be too stressful.

“Snow,” he says.

“Hey,” I say. He walks right up to me.

“I’ve decided to accept your proposal from earlier,” he says confidently. The confidence disappears as he goes on, “If it still stands, of course.”

“Oh,” I say. “You mean we can be fake boyfriends?” I try not to get my hopes up in case he means something else.

“Yes,” he says, slowly, “we can be fake boyfriends.”

I jump up.

“That’s great!” I say. “I know it will probably be really weird at first but—”

“Not so fast, Snow. If we’re going to do this, I have some rules to institute.”

“Why do you get to make the rules?” I say. “I’m the one helping you out.”

“Do you want to hear my rules or not?”

“Fine.”

How does he do that? I swear he’s a magician. He can convince me to do anything using just his words. He should go into politics after we graduate. I reckon he could be Prime Minister.

“First rule: You cannot tell anybody that our relationship is fake. Not even Bunce.”

“But I tell Penny everything!” I say.

He continues, “Second rule: We’re going to have to do things like hold hands to make people believe we’re a real couple, which is all well and good. The moment we’re in private, though, we drop the facade.”

Obviously. Why wouldn’t we?

“Third rule,” he says, pausing like he thinks I might interrupt. I am so far from interrupting him right now. “If the relationship ever gets to be too much for either of us, we must make a point to tell the other so we can end it. I understand that you’re doing me a favor, and I don’t want you feeling uncomfortable just because you’re too kind for your own good, Snow.”

That surprises me. It sounds like he made that rule solely for my benefit.

I’m sure that’s not it. He’s probably just covering his own ass. If in a few days’ time he decides he likes hitting me more than holding my hand, he’s giving himself an easy way out.

Whatever. I’ll accept his bloody rules. But I have a few of my own.

“My turn,” I say. “Fourth Rule: You have to call me Simon.”

“No way,” he says. “You’re Snow.”

I decide begging is a more effective strategy than getting aggressive. He sometimes responds well to begging.

“Pleeeeease,” I say. “At least call me Simon in front of other people.”

He looks up, considering.

“Deal,” he says, sticking out his hand.

“I’m not finished,” I say. “Fifth Rule: You can’t be mean to me anymore. No more calling me idiot or moron or pointing out how dumb you think I am.”

“Just in front of other people?” he smirks.

I don’t know what he finds amusing about this. I really hate when he calls me stupid. I always have. It hurts more coming from him than it would coming from anyone else.

“Yes, fine. Just in front of other people. Though I wish you wouldn’t do it in private either.”

“Anything else?” he says, as if my first two rules will take a huge effort to follow.

I’m literally just asking him to call me by my first name rather than Snow or moron. How hard can that possibly be?

Something else occurs to me. Something I’ve always wanted. It’s a big ask, and I doubt he'll agree to it.

Then again, I am doing him a pretty big favor by fake-dating him, so I have more leverage than ever.

“There is one more. It’s not a rule so much as a request, but it’s, um, well, I was wondering if you would, um,” I bluster.

I know he hates when I stumble over my words. Normally he would interrupt me with a _Spit it out_ , _Snow_. He doesn’t do that this time. He waits patiently for me to gather my thoughts.

“I want us to be friends,” I say. “For real. Not fake friends. If you get to know me and still hate me, then I’ll accept that. But I want you to at least try.”

He’s thinking. Hard. I can tell. His eyebrows are pulled together, and he’s running his thumb and index finger along his jaw, stroking a beard that doesn't exist.

“Why?” he says. “Why do you want us to be friends so badly?”

I don’t have a good answer.

“I don't want to hate you, Baz. And I sure as hell don't want you to hate me. Just because we’re complete opposites doesn’t mean we have to hate each other. Penny and I don’t have a lot in common, and we’re best mates. Hating you is a full-time job. It’s exhausting. Life would be so much easier if you and I were friends.”

“Okay,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “We can try.”

“Then we have a deal,” I say, and we shake hands.

Neither of us is prepared for the cloud of awkwardness that settles between us.

“So…” I say. “Where do we start?”

 

#### Baz

After some discussion we agreed that Snow’s Tuesday evening drama rehearsal would be our first appearance as a couple.

He said his professor wouldn’t be there since it’s a student-run rehearsal.

It’ll be very laid back and low-pressure, he insisted. I hope he’s right because today is the day, and I am not ready for this.

I barely slept the rest of the weekend. I couldn't pay attention in class the past two days.

My performance at football practice last night was utter rubbish. Coach McEwan even pulled me aside and asked me if everything was all right.

No, everything is not all right. I’m about to come out of the closet, with Simon bloody Snow as my fake-boyfriend!

I'm standing in the courtyard in front of the fountain where I said I would meet Snow.

I don't know who paid for this ruddy fountain. I've never liked it. It's an ugly blemish on an otherwise perfectly good quadrangle.

Creepy cherubs spit streams of recycled water all day and night. When it's warm, anyway. The school has drained the fountain for winter, which makes the infernal thing seem even creepier.

“Baz.”

I turn to see Snow wearing a green jacket and red scarf. The cold has bitten Snow’s cheeks raw, leaving them a delicious shade of red. It's a very good look on him.

“Ready to go?” he says.

Not at all, but I refuse to show any sign of weakness.

“Lead the way.” I make a sweeping gesture with one hand.

We arrive at a part of the school I've never been to—the drama classroom. It's attached to the auditorium.

There's a small stage at the back of the room. Students are holding scripts on the stage and nearby.

The professor doesn't trust the students to use the main stage unless she is there to supervise.

It makes sense. From their reputation half the theatre kids are self-absorbed hacks, and the other half are self-loathing drips. It's not a group that inspires confidence.

Except Snow. He is a shining beacon in the darkness where the Drama department is concerned.

I haven't seen him in an actual play since third year, though I have seen him run lines with Bunce a hundred times. He's good. Better than he knows.

The chance to see him perform with the other actors was a huge factor in my agreeing to come tonight.

Snow grabs my hand, pulling me towards the back of the classroom. His hand is so hot. But dry. The exact opposite of mine. He makes no comment on the clammy claw I give him. I appreciate that.

The actors on stage are in the midst of a scene. The scene is intense, the actors are not.

I know because I recognize it. What self-respecting Englishman doesn’t know _Romeo and Juliet_?

Mercutio is meant to be dying and wishing a plague on both houses, except the actors aren’t doing it justice. Strike that.

Snow’s peers are shitting on Shakespeare’s legacy to an unprecedented extent. I might have excused them as novices if not for the fact that they came to Watford specifically to act. They want to make a career out of this, presumably.

Fat chance.

“They’re dreadful,” I whisper to Snow.

He pokes me in the ribs and says, “Be nice. Rule 5. You have to be nice when we’re in public.”

“I only have to be nice to _you_. You said nothing about everyone else.”

“Well, I’m saying it now. New rule.”

“That’s not how it works, Snow.”

“Yes it is, Basil,” he says. We’re close enough to the others now that I can't respond without raising suspicion.

“Simon, finally!” says the girl whose apparent inspiration for acting out Mercutio’s death was a squealing pig rolling in the mud. “We need a real Romeo. Arjun is throwing the whole scene off. He’s more of a Tybalt anyway.”

Arjun rolls his eyes.

Arjun is all right. We've been to each other's houses a handful of times. He's the closest thing I have to a friend on the football team.

_Oh no. Fuck me._

The football team. I forgot Arjun was in Drama. Snow must have forgotten, too.

I'm about to come out to a group of people for the first time, and one of them is on the bloody football team with me!

What was I thinking fake-dating Snow? This was such a stupid idea. I should have just bribed Snow to keep his mouth shut about me and then come out at uni.

“I thought Arjun was a pretty good Romeo,” says Snow. “What did you think, Baz?”

I can hear his voice inside my head. _Rule 5, Basil. Rule 5._

“What? Oh yes. He was good,” I say.

That satisfies Snow and silences the Mercutio girl. But now everyone is staring at Snow and me, waiting for some explanation as to why we're holding hands.

An anxietal spasm shoots through me, making me squeeze Snow’s hand tightly. He misreads this as some sort of go-ahead signal.

“Guys, you all know Baz, right?” he smiles at me. “We’re dating now.”

My eyes go to Arjun’s face. A raised eyebrow. That’s the extent of his reaction.

“I didn’t know jocks were your type, Si,” says the boy who was playing Benvolio. “I thought you were more into the whole preppy thing.” _Like Agatha_ goes unsaid, but I know that's what he meant. He smiles.

“Well Baz is both,” says Snow, and he grins.

I can’t help myself. I feel my face get hot. Not that I consider myself particularly jockish or preppy, but hearing Snow effectively admit I’m an amalgam of both his two types is more flattering than any compliment I've ever received.

“So Simon has a boyfriend. Yippee,” says Mercutio girl. “Can we please go back to rehearsing?”

She rivals me for bluntness, this one.

Snow squeezes my hand before letting go and stepping onto the stage, and for the briefest, most impossible of moments it feels like we're a real couple. Like I'm Simon Snow’s boyfriend.

I could get used to this.

Rows of chairs have been set up in front of the stage. A throng of supporting cast members are sitting together in the front row. I choose a chair in the back row. I'm in no mood to be fielding questions from strangers.

I feel like I’m in a Dalí painting. None of this seems real. The very walls surrounding me seem to not be real.

I’m floating on the experience of Snow holding my hand, announcing that we’re dating.

It’s several minutes before I return to earth. The scenes I watch are infinitely better with Snow as Romeo.

He says, “See how she leans her cheek upon her hand, O that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek!”

William Shakespeare is, I believe, the only person alive or dead who could understand the agony and delight of being in love with Simon Snow.

“He’s so good,” says someone, startling me out of my thoughts. I turn to see Arjun sitting beside me, watching the scene.

“He is,” I say.

“Wait ‘til the lads find out you're bent,” he says.

I’m trying to formulate a response. I'm panicking. He's going to tell everyone I'm gay.

“Relax, Baz. I’m just joking.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. His soft smile sets me at ease. It does a little more than that actually.

In another life Arjun and I might have been boyfriends. If he were gay and I weren’t in love with Snow. He’s exactly the type of boy my parents would admire—academic, athletic, from an old family.

My attempt at a laugh comes out sounding sort of like Spongebob’s laugh.

“Honestly, don’t worry about me telling the lads. I won’t say anything,” he says.

Arjun has always had a talent for reading other people’s thoughts and emotions. That’s why he gets along with everyone.

“Really?” I say. “Thank you. I’m going to tell them. I’m just waiting for the right time.”

“I get it,” he says. We watch Snow and the others for a while, and then Arjun says, “You know my sister is gay.”

I did not know that.

“I didn’t even know you had a sister,” I say.

“Yeah,” he says, “she’s nine years older than me. She lives in Australia with her girlfriend.”

“Wow,” I say. “So does that make you an _ally_ , then?”

“I guess it does. I’m totally an _ally_. I’m your _ally_ , Baz.”

This is what I mean about him being so perceptive. He picked up on my disdain for that term and immediately used it to tease me. Not in a mean way, in a supportive way.

Though we’ve been friendly with each other for years, you never know how people will react until you know. And now I know. Arjun is good. Genuinely.

“That means a lot.” I say. More than he’ll ever know. “It’s comforting to know I have someone supporting me other than Snow.”

That feels weird to say. Even weirder because it’s true.

“So how did it happen, anyway? I thought you and Simon hated each other?” says Arjun.

“We did,” I say. “At least, I thought we did, but I realized that I didn’t hate him. Not at all. I actually quite fancied him. So I asked him out a few days ago, and he said yes. I was more surprised than anyone.”

“Wait,” says Arjun, “did you have anything to do with his break-up with Agatha?”

Shit. Obviously people would assume this. I should have foreseen this. I should have convinced Snow to wait a few weeks.

Unless this was Snow's plan all along. Does he _want_ everyone to think I’m a home-wrecker?

He’s in so much trouble if he does.

“No, Arjun. I didn’t have anything to do with that.” I stand. “Tell Snow I’m not feeling well, and that I went back to the dorm, will you?”

He looks regretful that he’s offended me. Good. He should be.

“Sure, Baz. I’ll tell him. See you at practice,” he smiles apologetically.

“See you,” I say, and I leave.

 

#### Simon

I’m pissed off.

Baz left rehearsals early. Arjun told me. So help me if Baz left because he decided our “relationship” was too much for him already.

That went as well as it could have gone, in my opinion. No one even reacted to the fact that Baz is gay. Or that I’m...whatever I am. But theatre kids are like that—inclusive, tolerant, kum ba yah.

What did Baz want? Flowers and chocolates? A trophy?

He’s sitting on his bed reading a textbook when I get back to the dorm.

He says, “Snow,” as expected.

“What the fuck, Baz?” I say.

“Elaborate.”

He’s so infuriating with his superiority bullshit.

“I went to check on you, and you weren’t there. Why’d you leave? I thought it was going well.”

“I’m sure it was going well _for you_ ,” Baz says.

“What do you mean, for me?” I say.

Did someone bully him when I wasn’t paying attention? That seems unlikely.

“Your plan worked, Snow. Arjun asked if I was the reason Wellbelove broke up with you, and I'm sure he's not the only one in that room who thought that. Everyone will think I’m a bloody home-wrecker.”

He’s giving me his coldest stare. I know it well. He reserves it for when I make him really mad—like, punch-me-in-the-face mad. It’s somewhat softened by the reading glasses he’s wearing, but not by much.

“Wait, you think I planned that? Baz, I’m on your side.”

He laughs. “Sure you are.”

“I am!” I say. “Okay. It was stupid for us to start dating so soon after the break up. I’ll give you that. But you didn’t think of it either, and you’re supposed to be the smart one! So don’t act like it’s just my fault.”

Baz is quiet for a while.

“You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t have assumed you were trying to hurt my reputation. That was wrong of me. But we definitely should have waited a few weeks to let the chatter die down.”

I sit on his bed, and he doesn’t kick me off. That’s three times in a few days. Progress.

“We should have,” I agree, “but it’s too late now. People are just going to have to deal with it.”

“Can I ask you something?” he says. “What are you getting out of this deal anyway?”

I was hoping he wouldn’t ask that. Of course he asked it. I’m dealing with Baz; he’s too smart and too curious to accept things as they come.

“Promise you won’t be mad?” I ask.

“No,” he says, and I smile.

“Well,” I say, “I thought, if I got a replacement before Agatha did, then it would seem like she was the weak one, not me. But it couldn’t be just anybody. It had to be someone that everyone admires. And then I thought maybe we could kill two birds with one stone. I get to be your boyfriend, you get to come out to the rest of the school. It’s a win-win. That was my original thought.”

“Everyone admires me?” Baz says.

“Are you serious? You’re the star of the football team. You’re tall, mysterious, a borderline genius. Not to mention you’re rich, and the fittest guy at Watford by far.”

The look on his face is so smug. We don’t compliment each other very often.

“Borderline?” he scoffs. I shove him, and he snickers.

“Other than all that, though, how do you think it went tonight?” I say.

I’m taking my role as Baz’s gay stuff therapist very seriously.

“Not bad,” he says. “No one seemed that bothered, which is the best I can hope for, I suppose, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That was my thought, too. And? What did you think of my acting?”

Best to keep things light and playful. I know Baz has had second thoughts about this whole thing, and I'm doing my best not to scare him off.

“You were lightyears better than Mercutio and Benvolio,” Baz says.

“Anne and Justin,” I say.

“I don’t care, Snow,” he says. “You were the best one there by far. When you were on stage, I wasn’t even looking at anyone else.”

“Wow, Baz, that’s got to be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He flushes and says, “Don’t get used to it.”

“Why not?” I say. “We’re trying to be friends, right? Friends compliment each other.”

He says nothing.

“So first day as my fake-boyfriend was an overall success, then?” I say.

“It was, Romeo,” he concedes. “It was.”

 

#### Baz

I can’t believe this. Snow just told me I was the fittest bloke at Watford.

What does that mean? Is he attracted to me, or was it just an objective observation?

It can’t be objective; everyone is attracted to different features, and Snow is no exception.

Simon Snow thinks I’m fit.

This makes every football practice, every 10 km run, every 6 AM gym session completely worth it.

I let my guard down a bit and told him my honest thoughts on his acting when he asked. I left out the part where I wished we were actually living out _Romeo and Juliet_ —sans the ending, of course—but baby steps.

It’s easier to be near him than I thought it would be. I’m not panicking as much as I thought I would. Snow has sat on my bed a few times now, and I haven't so much as raised an eyebrow.

I’ve held his hand. Not just an obligatory handshake enforced by Meriweather after a nasty row. We held hands like a real couple.

His hand feels so right in mine. I want to hold it every minute of every day.

I also realized I was being paranoid about Snow’s ulterior motives for fake-dating me. He simply wanted to beat Agatha in the post break-up game. I can’t fault him for that.

Though I’ve never been on either side of a break-up, it seems a totally rational, if slightly immature, response to want to come out better, to make the other person rue the day they broke your heart.

If I can be that trophy for Snow I will. Christ knows he’s helping me out. Though I still don’t know why he considers me such a catch.

The learning curve is steep, I’ve discovered, when it comes to being nice to Snow. Slow and steady wins the race.

He wants us to be friends. We’re not quite there yet.

I want us to be more than friends. We will never be there.

I have an unusually high emotional pain tolerance—a lucky byproduct of years of unrequited love. It remains to be seen whether I have the power to withstand such proximity to the boy who has my heart.

Day 1 was an overall success, as Snow put it.

I imagine Snow and I are star-crossed lovers in fourteenth century Italy as I fall asleep. A dream written by Shakespeare and starring Snow wouldn’t be so bad.

 

#### Simon

Penny is back from India.

I see the back of her head when I walk in our Physics classroom.

“You owe me a hug,” I say. I set my bag down in the seat beside hers.

“Simon,” she says without looking up from the book she’s reading. It reminds me so much of Baz.

“Okay. What’s wrong?” I say. “What did I do?”

She slams her book down on the desk like an irate Hermione Granger.

“Are you or are you not currently dating Basilton Grimm-Pitch?”

My blood goes cold. Part of my deal with Baz involves lying to Penny. Rule 1.

I’m about to put on the acting performance of my life.

“Well, yes, I am,” I say, timing the pauses just so. “After I got off the phone with you Friday night, he and I started fighting, and the next thing I knew we were snogging. I would’ve told you,” (guilty look), “but it felt like something I had to figure out on my own.”

She still looks angry but no longer hurt. Better that than hurt and angry.

It kills me to lie to her. Penny and I have a no-secrets pact. She broke it once, though. I didn’t know about her boyfriend, Micah, until months after they started dating.

I’m not doing this as a way to get back at her. An eye for an eye is not my motto when it comes to friendship.

“I can’t believe this,” Penny says. “I’ve always thought your obsession with Baz bordered on unhealthy, but now it all makes sense. You had a schoolboy crush the whole time.”

I don’t have an unhealthy obsession with Baz. I would ask her what she means, but I’m eager to get off this subject.

Professor Bullman saves me. He starts class just as Penny opens her mouth to say something else. If there’s one thing in the world Penny cares about more than my personal life, it’s her academic performance.

The fact that I was able to lie so quickly both impresses and frightens me. Like when I outed Baz during our argument the other night. I don’t like being good at lying. I don’t like that I’m good at hurting someone’s feelings when I want to.

Baz is the one who gets off on lying and being secretive. To everyone but me, that is.

I followed him everywhere back in fifth year. That’s how I know he goes to The Catacombs and likes sugary coffee drinks and buys Christmas toys for his siblings from Hamley’s.

Penny can call it unhealthy if she wants to, but it was Headmaster Meriweather that put me up to it. He thought Baz was trying to get him sacked, so he told me to tail him and report back. I was happy to do it.

Not that I found anything that interesting. The headmaster got cold feet pretty quickly, but I followed Baz through the end of term.

That’s not to say that Baz doesn’t surprise me. He does. Still. For every layer I peel back, two more seem to sprout up in its place.

If Penny’s specialty is paying attention in class, mine is letting my mind wander.

I wonder how Penny heard about me and Baz.

My money is on Anne.

Theatre kids are notorious blabbermouths. Everyone knows that. It was part of my plan. I hoped they would spread the news about Baz and me. The fewer people Baz has to come out to, the better.

I’m pleased to see several students stealing glances of me during class. They’re trying to confirm the rumors. As if they're hoping to see the words BAZ’S BOYFRIEND tattooed across my forehead.

I wonder what Baz is up to. I know his first class is History, and I know he hates it almost as much as he hates me.

 

#### Baz

History is dreadfully tedious for me.

I wish Snow were here with me. I quite fancy playing with his hand just now. That would be a much more productive use of my time.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I hope it’s a text from Snow (because texting each other is a thing we do now apparently).

It isn’t Snow, it’s Dev. He sent a text to our group chat (me, Dev, Niall).

 **Agatha said yes!!!** , Dev says, with about 40 emojis afterwards.

Another message comes in before I have time to respond. Not that I would have had any fucking clue what to say.

**Dev: She says we should go on a double date, the four of us**

Niall: So I’m the only one destined to be alone forever, then?

_Me: What do you mean, the four of us?_

**Dev:** **You me Agatha Simon**

Niall: By the way, Baz, thanks for telling us you’re dating your mortal enemy.

Guilt punches me in the gut. On one hand, the lads have never given me a reason to mistrust them, but on the other hand, I’m supposed to come out when I feel ready. That’s what all the literature online says on this topic.

Why couldn’t I have been born straight and avoided all this hassle?

No. Why can’t society just get off its bloody high horse and accept that everyone is different?

_Me: I’m sorry. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll let you in on a different secret._

_Me: I’m gay._

Niall: Lol

Niall: No, really?

**Dev: Obviously your gay, your dating Simon**

_Me: You’re*_

Niall: He was joking, Dev.

**Dev: So he’s not gay?**

Niall: Nevermind…

I laugh but play it off as a cough. If those two had a comedy act they would make a killing.

_Me: So you two really don’t care that I’m gay?_

It’s so fucking weird to be doing this over text. I’m holding my breath waiting for them to respond. It feels like an eternity before my phone buzzes again.

**Dev: I don’t care, as long as you promise you won’t try to bum me**

That’s exactly the type of mature response one would expect from Dev in this situation.

Niall: Of course not, you knobhead. Why would we care?

An enormous weight is gone from my shoulders as I read this. My heart soars.

All that worrying, and for what? My friends are my friends, and they’ll always be my friends.

I feel like I could run to Manchester and back. I might run extra laps today after practice just for the hell of it.

My phone buzzes again, cutting short my revelry.

Niall: It’s not much of a surprise, to be fair. Dev and I found some fairly damning photos on your laptop a few years ago.

First Snow with the iPad and now these two Rodneys with my laptop.

 _Me: Christ! Is nothing sacred?_!

Niall: It’s not like we went digging. The folder was already open. We were just trying to watch Netflix while you were at practice.

_Me: How the hell did you get in my room? Or did you steal my laptop at lunch or something?_

**Dev: Still waiting on that promise…**

Niall: Simon let us in.

_Me: Of course he fucking did._

**Dev: Baz will you try to bum me or not? Because YOU’RE taking way too long to answer**

Niall: Give it a rest, Dev.

_Me: It’s fine._

_Me: I promise not to bum you, Dev. I’m more of a bottom anyway.  ;)_

I don’t even know if that last part is true, but I can’t resist messing with them. Their reactions have made it clear that we’re allowed to joke about this.

Joking about it feels great, actually.

Niall: I could have gone my whole life without knowing that.

**Dev: What’s that mean?**

_Me: Ask Niall._

**Dev: Niall what does bottom mean?**

Niall: I’ll tell you when you’re older.

_Me: lmao_

**Dev: Screw you guys I’m googling it**

_Me: Good luck with that. Let us know what you find._

Niall: Tops are poles. Bottoms are holes. To reduce it to its essence.

_Me: Nicely said._

Niall: I try.

**Dev: Oh so Baz is a catcher?**

**Dev: That’s cool. I totally, you know, support that**

Niall: Oh my god.

I feel like I might burst from trying to hold back my laughter.

_Me: That’s good to know, Dev. Thank you for your, you know, total support._

**Dev: No problem**

Niall: Why do I hang out with you two?

**Dev: Oi!**

_Me: Because no one else will hang out with you._

Niall: Fair point, that.

Niall: So are we just going to ignore the fact that you’re Simon Snow’s new beau, Basil?

_Me: Yes, please._

**Dev: No I need an answer**

_Me: For what?_

**Dev: The double date**

I forgot this whole text chain kicked off because Wellbelove agreed to go out with Dev. My Dev.

I’m dating Snow (sort of), and Dev is dating Agatha Wellbelove. What is the world coming to?

_Me: I don’t think that’s a good idea._

Niall: I second that.

**Dev: Come on. Please. It’s Agatha, Baz. This is once in a lifetime for me.**

I can tell how serious he is from his punctuation.

_Me: I’ll talk to Snow._

**Dev: !!!!!THANK YOU BAZ!!!!!**

_Me: I didn’t say yes. I just said I’ll talk to him._

**Dev: I have full faith in your psychotic powers**

Niall: I think you mean psychic.

**Dev: Whatever**

I laugh again and this time Professor Keene stops class to look at me. I get away with quite a lot at this school. Even though Meriweather has turned the faculty against me personally, none of them can argue with my academic record, or my athletic record for that matter. They leave me be for the most part.

I get several seconds of Keene’s meanest stink eye before he turns back to the whiteboard and resumes teaching.

_Me: Keene is onto me. Let’s pick this up at lunch._

I slip my phone back into my pocket, grinning as it buzzes several more times with messages from my two stupid wonderful mates.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So they're together now. Kind of. 
> 
> I hope the formatting for the group chat wasn't too confusing at the end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to kiss Baz. Cuddle with him, hold his hand. I want him to go places, and I want to go with him.
> 
> I want him to fancy me back.
> 
> Juliet was lucky. Romeo loved her back.
> 
> I’m just Juliet on the balcony with no Romeo.
> 
> My Romeo is oblivious.
> 
> What do I do?
> 
> I have no idea.

#### Simon

Baz is at football practice.

We hardly talked today, not even through text. The last time I talked to him was to tell him I couldn’t make it to lunch. I had to have a catch-up lunch with Penny off-campus.

I wish we texted more often. He's really funny when he wants to be. It's just that talking to Baz at all is new for me, and I don’t always know what to say.

I text him now saying I’ve got a big surprise for him when he gets done with practice.

I’m making him scones. That’s the surprise.

I’m still waiting for that smile from him.

I expected to see Ebb in the kitchen, but she wasn’t here when I arrived.  I did see two empty wine bottles in the rubbish bin, which may explain Ebb’s absence.

It’s nearly half eight, and most of the kitchen staff have left for the night. The only one here besides me is Cook Pritchard.

She’s second in command to Ebb. She and Baz are friendly with each other—I think they might even be distant cousins—so I always feel awkward talking to her.

She’s polishing the work tables as I bake.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to do that?” I say. “I have to clean this mess up anyway.” I motion to where I’ve been kneading dough.

“It’s no bother,” she says. “I enjoy cleaning.”

I shrug, resolved to silence, but Cook Pritchard has other plans.

“I was sorry to hear that you and Agatha broke up,” she says. “I always thought you two made a nice couple.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I used to think so, too, but now I’m not so sure.”

She nods but doesn’t say anything. Something tells me it’s important to keep this conversation going.

“I’m making these for Baz you know,” I say.

“For Basil? Really?” she says. “I thought you two didn’t get on.”

“We don’t,” I say, out of habit. “Or, we didn’t. But we’re trying. I’m actually sort of dating him now.”

“Dating?” she says. Her eyes widen practically to owl size. “That’s…unexpected.”

“I know what you mean,” I say. “It seems like it came out of nowhere, but if I’m honest I think we’ve been building to this point for a while. Years, really.”

As of a week ago, Baz Pitch and I hated each other. Lying, I’m sorry to say, gets easier the more you do it.

Ugh! I hate Rule 1. I should talk to Baz about it. I bet I can convince him to let me tell Penny the truth, at least.

Especially after he tries my scones.

I see a flicker of recognition flash across Cook Pritchard’s face, almost like she knows something I don’t.

Has Baz told her that our relationship is fake? Doubtful. It was his idea not to tell anyone in the first place.

“Well,” she says, “I’m sure he’ll like them. You’re as good a baker as Ebb.”

Wow. That’s high praise coming from someone so accomplished.

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think I’m anywhere near Ebb’s level.”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says, “I had that sticky toffee pudding you made last year. Mary Berry would have been hard pressed to find fault in it.”

Okay, she has to stop before I start crying. Mary Berry is one of my idols. I wish she was my nan—I could go over to her house on weekends and we could bake together all day.

“If you say so,” I say, grinning.

“I do,” she says, and I grin wider.

Baz better like these scones. They were made by a Cook Pritchard-approved baker.

 

#### Baz

I'm on my way back to the dorm.

It's late. Practice ended over an hour ago, but I stayed behind to run extra laps.

Snow texted he had a surprise for me. I've got one for him, too.

Hey, Simon. Want to go on a double date with my mate and your ex this weekend?

This is going to go so well.

I'm unusually hungry. Admittedly, the extra laps didn't help, but I've been a lot hungrier since this whole fiasco with Snow started.

I was desperate enough to sneak some Maltesers from Snow's secret snacks stash this morning, and I don't even like Maltesers.

I enter the dorm and find it empty. Snow must be in the bathroom.

A delicious smell permeates our room. Is that freshly baked bread? My stomach aches with hunger.

I hope Snow hasn't gone and done anything stupid, like nipping down to The Catacombs to buy some pastries. He'd have been cutting it close to curfew.

Not that I can see any of the staff caring if he got caught. He's Watford’s golden boy.

Who am I kidding? He's my golden boy, too.

“Snow, I’m back!” I say.

“Oh!” he says. There’s some fumbling in the bathroom. I must have startled him. That makes me smile. “I’ll be right out!”

He comes out wearing pyjama bottoms and a towel around his neck, no shirt. He must have just shaved because he’s nicked his neck in a couple places. Snow likes to shave at night for some bizarre reason.

I’m struck by the thought that he should have been born with silver eyes. To go with his bronze hair and golden skin. Silver eyes would complete the trifecta. His eyes are blue. Plain blue. They’re the most unremarkable thing about his face.

I’ve got silver eyes. He could swap with me.

That sounded creepy.

“How was practice?” he asks. I don’t think he’s ever asked me that before.

“Brilliant, actually,” I say. “I was unstoppable. Worked poor Northridge into a full-on strop. I must have scored on him ten times.”

“Stop pretending to care,” Snow says, grinning. “You enjoyed every second of it.”

He’s right. I did. Especially because Northridge was needling me about being gay.

I was angry at first; at Northridge and his ilk, at my father, at Meriweather and the Watford faculty, at Snow for initiating this whole thing.

Sometime around my fifth goal, though, I realized that Northridge doesn’t matter. He can call me a bumder all he wants—only an idiot like Northridge would choose a slur from _The_ _Inbetweeners_ —I simply won’t let it affect me. That’s all. Mind over matter.

I came to enjoy Northridge’s jeers by the end of practice. His insults were spurring me on, making me better. Like an internet troll feeding off nasty comments.

That’s what I’ll be from now on, a gay troll to anyone at this school who thinks we’re still living in the Dark Ages. Not that I plan on being flamboyant—that’s not my style—but I will stick up for myself. Dev and Niall and Arjun and Snow will stick up for me, too, I think.

“There’s something you’re not telling me. That’s your take-on-the-world face,” says Snow, pointing at me.

Interesting. I didn’t know I had a take-on-the-world face. Snow is getting better at reading me. I’m not sure whether I like that.

“Northridge is not as open-minded as you and the theatre bunch. Let’s leave it at that,” I say.

“That’s rubbish,” he says. “I’m sorry, Baz.”

I nod my thanks.

“I had the last laugh, anyway, didn’t I?” I say.

I sit down on the floor, not wanting to dirty my bed, and lean against the footboard.

“I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up,” he says.

Snow walks over to his desk. His back is to me. He has such a beautiful back—strong, with three small moles that go diagonally across like Orion’s Belt.

He opens and closes a drawer, then turns around with what looks like a plate of scones.

“Surprise! I made scones. Sour cherry. Try one,” he says, sitting beside me and thrusting the plate towards my face.

I grab the largest scone and take a bite.

Holy shit.

“There’s no way you made these,” I say, taking another bite.

“So they’re good?” he says.

“Snow,” I say, and he frowns, so I start again. “Simon, this scone is fucking incredible. I didn’t know you could bake.”

As if I needed another reason to love him.

He blushes. “I guess it’s just something I picked up hanging around Ebb so much,” he says.

I knew Snow was friendly with Chef Petty, but I didn't know she had been teaching him her mystical ways. That woman’s baking skills are positively preternatural.

I take a second scone off the plate before I’m done with the first. Snow chuckles at that.

“I visit Cook Pritchard sometimes, and I assure you there’s no blooming way I could make anything this delicious,” I say.

I would say he blushes deeper, but I can’t tell. He’s got a permanent blush on temporarily. If that makes any sense.

“I’m glad you like them,” he says. “They’re supposed to be a sort of apology.”

“For what?” I say, cautiously.

“You know, for outing you. For making people think you’re a home-wrecker. For breaking your nose in second year. For everything, I guess,” he says.

There he goes again. Snow will always be Snow, I suppose.

“Simon. You _have_ to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” he says.

“Apologizing for every little thing. I’m not a snowflake. We discussed the home-wrecker thing already. And you outing me was a blessing in disguise, so you’re off the hook there. As for breaking my nose, I think it gives my face character, don’t you?” I say, turning my head up and to the side.

He laughs.

I made Simon Snow laugh. And he made me scones.

The scones taste heavenly. And he looks heavenly. And his laugh sounds heavenly.

Maybe I died and went to Heaven.

Seems unlikely. I’m fairly certain if the god of Christianity exists, I’m bound for somewhere a good deal hotter and less pleasant than Heaven.

“They’re not _just_ surprise scones. They’re also thank you scones, new friend scones, preemptive apology for next time I screw up scones, _and_ fake-boyfriend scones.”

“Preemptive—impressive word,” I say, and he looks well chuffed. I take another bite. “I had no idea scones could have so many purposes.”

“Everybody knows scones are the most versatile of all the baked goods,” he says, and I laugh. Then he laughs again.

We're smiling at each other. I'm sweaty and he's shirtless.

This would be a very gay moment if we were actually dating.

A dagger goes through my heart at the realization that we're not dating. We're not even really friends. We're roommates who couldn't stand each other a week ago.

Despite the pain, I can't bring myself to end this blissful bubble we've managed to blow for ourselves.

I don't want to be the reason Snow stops smiling, but I promised Dev I would ask about the double date.

Here goes nothing.

“Have you heard about Agatha?” I say, and his smile disappears the moment he hears her name.

“What about her?” he says.

“Well, she's dating Dev now apparently,” I say.

“Dev? Your friend Dev?” he says. “Blimey. I didn't see that coming.”

I give him a minute to work through his thoughts.

“No offense, but isn't Dev kind of daft?” Snow asks.

I'll not have him insulting my mate. Even if Dev isn't traditionally exceptional in the intellect department.

“You're no Isaac Newton yourself, Snow,” I say.

He shakes his head. “I know I'm not as smart as you, Baz. You really don't have to remind me all the time,” he says, making me feel like I've just been scolded by a professor in front of the entire school.

He crosses his arms which make his pectoral muscles bulge.

I almost want to apologize. Almost.

“Anyway,” he says, “my point is that there's no way Agatha would date Dev under normal circumstances. I know her, Baz. She only accepts the best for herself.”

“So you're the best, then? Quite full of yourself, aren't you?” I sneer.

I think Snow is the best person I know, have ever known, and will ever know, but I didn’t know he shared my opinion.

“Jesus, can you stop that?!” he says. “Obviously I'm not the best since she fucking broke up with me. That wasn't the point I was making. Although, funnily enough, she's had a crush on you for years.”

This is going to be hard to deny.

“She hasn't—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Yes, she bloody has! I've seen the way she looks at you when you walk in a room. Her head snaps up and her eyes lock onto you like she's got bloody Baz-radar. She's even more aware of you than I am, and that's saying a lot.”

That brings me up short. I always thought the way she looked at me was creepy, possessive even, but I ignored it because she was with Snow.

“So what if she does fancy me?” I say. “We both know I won't be dating Wellbelove. Unless she's got a cock I don't know about.”

“Again, not the point I was making, but thank you for that pleasant mental image,” he says. “I was simply supporting my argument.”

Snow thinks I'm the best. He just admitted it. Not in those words, but still.

Breathe, Basil. Breathe.

“What are you really trying to say, Snow?” I ask.

“I’m saying she’s using Dev to make you jealous,” he says. “Or me jealous. Or both of us jealous, I don’t know. I just know Dev is probably going to get hurt, and we should try to stop that from happening.”

It doesn’t make sense that Wellbelove would be using Dev to make me jealous because 1) she now knows I’m gay, and 2) she must know I don’t fancy Dev.

I know what it’s like to envy Wellbelove. I envied her the whole time she and Snow were together.

There’s no way she’s trying to make me jealous with Dev. Then again, I understand very little about how teenage girls think.

Maybe Snow is right. Maybe she heard Snow and I were together and decided to go out with the first boy who asked her, and Dev is both extremely lucky and unlucky that it happened to be him.

“I didn’t know you had such a low opinion of your ex-girlfriend,” I say.

“I don’t,” he says, looking offended once again.

“Fine, then,” I say. “What do you suggest we do about it? Because Agatha wants us to go on a double date with her and Dev, and I told him we’d go.”

I don’t know what makes me lie. Immaturity. Indignancy on Dev’s behalf. Or plain old stupidity.

Snow stands up.

“You what?! Baz, what the hell? I know our relationship is fake, but you still have to ask me before you agree to things.”

I'm a bit distracted by the hair beneath his navel. It looks so soft and inviting.

I shake my head and focus on his eyes.

“I thought you’d be happy for the chance to make her jealous, like you said the other day,” I say.

Turn it back on him. That’s always a good tactic.

“That was hypothetical!” he says. “It’s not like I want to hurt her feelings by kissing you right in front of her.”

Kissing? Who said anything about kissing?

My God. Now I definitely want this date to happen.

“So you want me to cancel?” I say, bluffing a third time.

He paces around the room. I take another bite of scone. Snow is very amusing to watch when he gets like this.

“No,” he says. “We can’t cancel. I guess we have to go. But just this once. And if it seems like she’s only dating Dev to get to us, I won’t hesitate to tell him.”

“Fine by me,” I say, shrugging.

It's not like I want Agatha to hurt Dev, but my desire to go on a date with Snow—even a fake one—trumps every other desire I have right now.

“You’re unbelievable sometimes,” he says, shaking his head.

“I’m unbelievable all the time,” I say.

Either way, it looks like we’re going on a real date soon. A real fake first date.

What does one wear to a real fake-date with Simon Snow and his ex-girlfriend?

It doesn’t matter. I’ll be better dressed than Dev and Snow. That’s for sure.

 

#### Simon

“He agreed to go on the date without even asking me!” I tell Penny.

She looks repulsed. “You’ve got egg on your face,” she says.

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Penny’s grimace slowly fades.

I know I have bad eating habits. I sort of just shove everything in. Words like _savoring_ and _table manners_ don’t mean much to an orphan like me.

The orphanage never starved us, certainly not intentionally, but we also never got three buffet-style meals per day there like we do at school. Summers have been even worse the past few years since I gave up meat. I must lose 20 pounds per summer. But I always gain it all back during the first month of school. 

Really, I don’t think I learned a single thing my first year at Watford. I was too busy eating as much as I could.

Penny told me they have a similar thing in the States. They call it the Freshman 15. It’s where you gain 15 pounds during your first year at uni.

Her boyfriend tells her all sorts of things about America. Unlike mine, who isn’t American, and hardly talks to me, and isn’t nice to me, and isn’t even my real boyfriend!

“Where is Baz, anyway?” Penny says.

“Who cares?” I say.

“That’s a nice way to talk about your boyfriend,” she says.

I have to be careful. She thinks our relationship is real.

“He just makes me so mad,” I say.

“Well, that’s not a new development, is it?”

“No, but I’m at least _trying_ to consider his feelings. Can’t he consider mine?” I say.

That’s actually true. Maybe the best way to keep up the lie is to tell the truth.

“Okay,” she says, putting her toast on my plate. I always end up eating whatever she doesn’t finish. “Therapy session.”

I perk up at the extra food, but mainly at Penny’s offer for counsel.

Penny is my unofficial relationship advisor. I didn’t always follow her advice when I was with Agatha, but I wish I had. It might have saved all three of us a lot of time and worry.

“What has Baz done that has made you mad since you started dating?” she says. “Be specific.”

“Well,” I say, “there’s the double date thing, which you already know. He also keeps calling me Snow, even though Rule 4 says he’s supposed to call me Simon. Then he’s got a general air of superiority, which is really annoying. I think he’s—” 

“Wait, you’ve got rules? You two made rules for your relationship?” she says, giggling.

Damn it.

Baz is right. I’m a useless moron who can’t keep his bloody mouth shut.

How am I gonna get out of this?

“We thought it would be a good idea,” I say. “You know, considering how weird this whole thing is.”

Tell the truth without coming clean. Tell half the truth.

She stares at me with that squinty-eyed, soul-reading face of hers.

I’m worried she’s going to ask about the other rules, but she says, “I see. Now, what about the things you like about him? Again, be specific.”

I let out a huge sigh of relief.

“That’s easy,” I say, thinking back to the list I made in my notebook. “He’s the fittest bloke in school by far. The football star. He reads. He’s the second smartest person in our class,” I say.

Penny smiles at the implication that she’s the smartest.

She said to be specific, though. What do I really _really_ like about Baz?

“I like to squeeze his hand. I like when he tells me things. Like problems he’s having, you know? It makes me feel special. And when he texts me out of nowhere because he’s bored in class. Or how his hair looks after he goes for a run. Or when he asks me for a pen because his is out of ink.”

I look at Penny for the first time in a while, and I’ve never seen a bigger grin on her face.

My face gets hot. “What?” I say.

“Nothing, nothing,” she says, waving her hand. “It’s just, in the three years you dated Agatha, I never once heard you talk about her like that.”

That’s because Baz and Agatha are like chalk and cheese. One was a real relationship and the other was, is, anything but.

Besides, I could have listed what I liked about Agatha, but Penny never asked.

I could have said how much I liked Agatha’s smile, and the softness of her arms, and how she got me this really nice cashmere sweater once for Christmas. And how her parents accepted me right away.

I liked a lot of stuff about Agatha. But that’s not what we’re talking about right now.

“Nevermind that,” I say. “What do I do about Baz?”

This is my favorite part of our therapy sessions. Seeing Penny think in real time. I watch her pupils go back and forth for a while, and then she comes out with some wisdom like she’s the Oracle from _The Matrix_.

Her pupils stop moving. She frowns.

“I’m not gonna like it, am I?”

“No,” she admits.

“Go on, then,” I say, taking a big bite of toast.

“I think you need to be patient with Baz,” she says. “You two are just realizing your feelings for each other after years of burying them deep. That can’t be easy. For either of you. But just because he has a different way of working through his feelings doesn’t mean you should hold that against him. And also, coming to terms with being, well,” she blushes, “not heterosexual is a major emotional upheaval. Add to that the stress of athletics for him, theatre for you, academics for both of you, your respective places atop the Watford social ladder, _and_ your complicated history together, it will be a miracle if you guys last through the weekend. If you’re patient with him, he might surprise you.”

Wow. That’s a lot to take in. But you see what I mean, right? She’s like a monk or something.

“Patience?” I say.

“Patience,” she says.

Patience. That's an interesting thought.

I don’t think lack of patience is my problem with Baz. Sure, I have a short temper with him, but it’s only because he’s made me that way. I don’t have a short temper with anyone else.

“But also,” says Penny. “You’ve got to communicate better. And that starts with listening. You have to listen to him. I know,” she says, seeing me open my mouth to complain, “he doesn’t talk much. You’ll simply have to try that much harder to listen to him. Because everything he says is more important.”

Everything Baz says is cruel, smug, condescending. I wouldn’t exactly call any of it _important_.

Perhaps Penny’s wisdom is leaving her.

Her advice for getting through to Baz is patience and listening. I resist telling her that those are basically the same thing (and that she’s barmy for thinking they’ll work).

What am I saying? That would probably be brilliant advice, if Baz and I were a real couple, but since we’re not, the advice sounds mad.

Rule 1 sucks.

“Thanks for the advice, Pen,” I say, shoving the last of the toast in my mouth. Crumbs rain down onto the table. “I’ll be patient with him.”

She gives me her suspicious face again. I’m not sure why.

Probably because she knows me better than anyone.

What a stupid idea it was to fake date Baz. So stupid.

 

#### Baz

“Baz,” says Snow, turning around.

He’s at his computer desk, reading over his copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ (as if he doesn’t have it memorized). I’m on my bed reading _A Little Life_.

“Hmm?” I hum.

“Can we talk?” he says.

I expect he means that he’ll blither for a few minutes, I’ll listen and probably insult him, and then we’ll go back to reading quietly.

“I suppose,” I say, dog-earing the page I’m on.

“How was your day?” he says.

“Not bad,” I say. “Yours?”

If he wants to do small talk, I’ll do small talk.

“Same,” he says.

That’s all? He looks as if he regrets asking me to talk. We haven’t even said anything yet. What is there to regret?

Maybe he needs some prompting.

“Is there anything specific you wanted to talk about?” I say.

“Not really,” he says. I undo my dog ear to resume reading, but as soon as I start he says, “I just wanted to say I forgive you about the double date thing.”

I close my book again, with my finger inside marking my page.

That’s good to hear. Snow hasn’t talked to me all day, and I know it’s because he is still cross about the double date.

“Great,” I say.

“You could show some regret, you know,” he says, and I feel myself about to fly off the handle. I squeeze the book around my finger till it hurts.

Don’t get angry. Don’t get angry.

“Regret?” I say. “As I said before, Snow. I thought I was doing you a favor by agreeing to the date.”

The problem with lying is once you start it’s hard to stop.

“I get that,” says Snow. “But come on, Baz. At no point did you think you should ask me? Even a text would have been fine. The fact that you just unilaterally decided we would go on the date really upset me.”

Preemptive yesterday, Unilaterally today. Snow must have a Word of the Day app on his phone.

He looks incredibly cute at the moment. Almost sophisticated. His hair is damp, he’s got his reading glasses on, and he’s wearing this burgundy shirt that he’s had for years. It’s way too small for him now. Which means it’s my favorite shirt of his.

It pains me to know I’ve upset him, especially since it wasn’t deliberate this time.

If I’m not going to apologize for lying to his face—and I’m not—the least I can do is apologize for upsetting him.

“Simon,” I say, and he looks at me. I was wrong about his eyes. They’re bright and blue and brilliant. There’s not a single part of him that’s unremarkable. “I’m sorry. I should have asked you.”

This takes him aback.

“Well, that’s, all right,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

#### Simon

Baz just apologized to me. Actually said “I’m sorry.”

Maybe Penny was right. Patience. It’s a revelation. I could kiss her.

I could kiss Baz.

No, really. He looks so kissable right now. He’s wearing grey joggers and his hair is falling down around his face. His arms look so good. Like he’s carved from marble, veins and all.

I want to kiss him. Open-mouthed. On his nose and forehead and his closed eyes. I want to bite his ear.

I want to kiss Baz Pitch. The boy who’s hated me for years. The boy I’m fake-dating.

The fittest boy I’ve ever known who’s sitting on his bed 10 feet away from me.

Am I gay?

He looks so good.

I am so screwed.

 

#### Baz

Snow is staring at me. How am I supposed to read with that sort of thing going on?

“Take a picture, Snow. It’ll last longer,” I say. He blushes.

“You called me Simon before,” he says.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Except you did,” he says, and smiles.

“So what? Would you prefer I revert to calling you idiot or moron?” I say.

“No. I like when you call me Simon. It makes me feel like…”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t hate me.” He blushes again.

I don’t hate him. I can’t hate him. That’s my problem.

“I don’t hate you,” I say quietly.

“I don’t hate you either,” says Snow. “I never have.”

“Wait, what?” I say. What does he mean? “You’ve always hated me.”

“No, I haven’t,” he says. “I only pretended to. I tried to hate you because you hated me, but, um, I could never do it. I just hated that you hated me.”

Simon Snow has never hated me. If that’s true, then how _does_ he feel about me?

“I’ve never hated you,” I say.

“That’s clearly not true,” he says.

I smile at him. “Okay, maybe at first. But I haven’t hated you in a long time. You’re impossible to hate.”

“What do you mean?”

This has gone on long enough.

“Nothing,”

“No, Baz. What did you mean by that?” he says.

“Nothing, Snow. Go back to memorizing lines, would you?” I say.

We stare at each other.

“Fine,” he says, and turns back around.

I go back to reading my book.

I hear the sound of a camera shutter. I look up quickly to see Snow surreptitiously stuffing his phone into his pocket. His mouth pulls up into the slightest grin I’ve ever seen.

Little shit.

I pretend not to notice.

I don’t know what to make of any of this. And there’s no way in hell I’m going to ask.

 

#### Simon

Baz doesn’t hate me. He never has apparently.

And now I’ve got a photo of him to look at whenever I want.

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m reading Shakespeare, or maybe it’s the fact that I’m single for the first time in a long time, or maybe it’s the fact that Baz just admitted he doesn’t hate me, but I think I might fancy him.

_Come, gentle night, come, loving black-browed night,_  
_Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die,_  
_Take him and cut him out in little stars._

I want to kiss Baz. Cuddle with him, hold his hand. I want him to go places, and I want to go with him.

I want him to fancy me back.

Juliet was lucky. Romeo loved her back.

I’m just Juliet on the balcony with no Romeo.

My Romeo is oblivious.

What do I do?

I have no idea.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a filler chapter. But still important to the story. The double date is next.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Double Date!

####  **Baz**

Snow is nowhere to be found.

I told him we should arrive to the date together, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said he had somewhere to be, but he wouldn’t say where.

What could be more important than our first date?

I’m here at Fontana’s with Dev and Wellbelove, and it’s been well awkward thus far.

Leave it to Dev to pick an Italian place. Melted cheese and pasta-slurping wouldn’t be my pick for a first date.

I’ve always been self-conscious about how I eat. Evidently I am a very loud chewer. I’ve seldom had a meal with my father where he didn’t ridicule me about it. 

I don’t even know if I’m going to eat anything tonight. I don’t much fancy giving Snow more ammunition to insult me when we inevitably call off this little arrangement we’ve made.

When will that be? Who will be the one to end it?

Questions for later.

I see the waiter giving us dirty looks from across the room. He’s waiting on us to order. We’re waiting on Snow. So really, he’s waiting on Snow without having waited on Snow.

I smile and sip my wine.

Dev ordered us a bottle of wine. To impress Wellbelove. There’s no problem, since we’re all of age, except that Snow is a world class lightweight. 

Arjun brought Snow back to our dorm once after one of their theatre parties. Snow was falling all over himself, laughing at nothing. I asked Arjun how much booze Snow had had, and he said only a little. 

If a few drinks is enough to get Snow pissed, I really don’t want him drinking tonight.

Where the hell is he?

I pull out my phone to text him.

“Finally,” says Wellbelove. She's looking past me. 

I turn around. Snow has just walked in.

He’s in a grey suit that fits perfectly. He’s got his reading glasses on, even though he has literally never worn them outside our dorm, and he’s got that scarf on again. It shouldn’t really work with what he’s wearing, but it does. 

He smiles as he looks at me.

“Simon cleans up well,” says Dev.

Understatement of the fucking millenium, mate.

“Hey, babe,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.” And he kisses me on the bloody cheek. Dangerously close to my mouth.

What the hell? 

My heart and stomach feel as if they’ve swapped places.

“Simon,” I say. It’s the only word I can think of right now.

He shakes Dev’s hand and says, “Dev, right? Good to see you.” Then he hugs Wellbelove and says, “Agatha! How’ve you been?”

“Uh, great,” she says, as we all sit down. She looks almost as flustered as I am. “How about you, Simon?”

I hope she’s jealous of me. She deserves it. She was with Snow. She could hug him and hold his hand and kiss his cute moles whenever she wanted. She was the luckiest person in the world, but she threw it all away. 

“Yeah, really good,” he says. “It’s been a mad week. Hasn’t it, Baz?”

He sends a devilish grin my way and grabs my hand.

Jesus Christ. If he keeps this shit up, there’s a good chance I’ll propose to him by the end of the meal.

I don’t even have to pretend when I answer. 

“Beyond mad,” I say. 

I still cannot believe where I am right now. Who I’m with.

Snow spots the bottle of wine and releases my hand to pour himself a glass. I knock his knee with mine. He looks at me. I try to ask with my eyes if that’s such a good idea, but he ignores me and keeps pouring.

“Speaking of,” says Snow. “You’ll never guess where I’ve just come from.”

“Buckingham Palace,” says Dev. Wellbelove and I look at him like he’s a moron. Which, he sort of is.

“No,” Snow laughs. “That would be brilliant, though. I was auditioning for the winter play.”

“Oh, right,” says Dev, “Baz told me you’re a fair actor. What’s the play this year?”

" _Romeo and Juliet_ ," Snow, Wellbelove, and I answer in unison.

“Shakespeare. Of course,” Dev says, trying to sound cultured. “You’ll be Romeo, then?”

“Obviously,” says Wellbelove, as I say, “Naturally.”

“No,” says Snow.

“No?” says Wellbelove, as I say, “What?”

“Nope,” says Snow, really popping the p. “I auditioned for Juliet.” He downs half his glass of wine in one go.

I don't know what he's playing at.

“But you’re not a girl,” says Wellbelove.

“I’m not?” says Snow, putting a hand to his chest. He’s clearly enjoying this.

“Seriously, though. Part of the fun for me is a challenge, and Juliet is the biggest challenge I can think of,” he says.

“So how will that work? Will you, like, wear a wig?” says Dev. 

“Well, technically I haven't got the part yet,” Snow says.

“Oh, please,” says Wellbelove, waving a hand. “When have you ever not gotten the part you wanted?” 

“I've never auditioned for a girl's part,” Snow says. 

I stare at him, shaking my head. If only we could all be more like Snow—doing what we want, instead of what everyone else thinks we should do.

“What?” he says to me.

Was I staring at him this whole time?

“Nothing,” I say.

He smiles, grabs my hand again, squeezes.

I squeeze back.

I wish this were real. What I wouldn't give to make this real. 

 

####  **Simon**

I was right about Agatha. She hasn't spoken to Dev at all, except to answer a direct question.

I'll give him credit. You would think by her sixth one-word answer he would have given up. But he just keeps going.

_ What's your favorite color, Agatha? Did you like the new Marvel movie, Agatha? Have you ever been to Cornwall, Agatha? Do you do much traveling, Agatha? _

I'm going to have Baz tell him. It will be easier to hear coming from a friend, I think.

Plus, I don't really fancy telling him, “She was just using you.”

I've had two glasses of wine and I'm feeling tingly.

Baz looks fucking delicious. I could literally eat him up. He's wearing this dark turtleneck, and I can't stop looking at him. 

I want to bite him.

“So, when did you two realize you fancied each other?” says Agatha.

Baz looks unsure. I'll answer then.

“It was right after you broke up with me. I was a mess, and Baz was comforting me. You know, being a shoulder to cry on, and I kissed him out of nowhere. Then I realized I wanted to kiss him again. And again. And again.”

I'm such a good actor. I absolutely smashed that speech. They totally bought it.

“You told me you didn't talk about the break-up that night,” says Dev to Baz.

“I lied,” says Baz.

I watch his lips move. I really want to kiss him. 

So I do.

I lean in and do it. One hand on his leg, the other on the back of his neck. I leave my mouth open slightly. 

Baz puts his hand over mine on his leg and puckers his lips ever so slightly. 

I think I hear him moan, but I might be imagining it.

I lick my lips as I pull back. They taste like wine and salt and something else I can't quite place. It’s incredible, whatever it is.

Baz is frozen. He’s redder than the wine. I feel like I need to justify what I just did.

I shrug. “I just really wanted to kiss you.”

“You guys are so cute together,” says Dev. “Can I say that?”

“Course you can,” I say.

I smile at Baz. 

“Please excuse me for a moment,” says Baz, and he walks towards the bathroom.

“Was it something I said?” says Dev.

“No. I'm just such a good kisser sometimes he gets a little light-headed,” I say. Dev laughs. 

Agatha says, “No, you're not.”

I scowl at her. She scowls back.

“Agatha,” I say.

“What?” she spits.

“Can't you just be happy for me?” I say.

“Why would I be happy?” she says.

“Because I've found someone else. Isn't that what you said? You hoped I found what I was looking for. Well, I've found it.”

“But not him, Simon! Baz? Seriously? You've spent the last few years convincing me he's evil. That he wants to get Meriwether fired. You want me to be happy you're dating the boy who pushed you down the stairs and gave you a black eye and god knows what else?” 

“Yes,” I say. “I'd be happy if it was you.”

“No, you wouldn't.”

“Maybe you're just jealous,” I say, finishing the rest of my wine. “You wish you were dating Baz.”

I look down. That was Baz’s wine I just finished. The more the merrier, right?

Agatha stares at me. I think she might scream, but her response is unnaturally calm.

“Please forgive me, Dev. I'm not feeling well. Thanks so much for a lovely evening, but I think I'll go now.” She kisses Dev’s cheek, and he looks like he might float away.

When she stands, I stand, then Dev stands. She doesn't say anything else as she leaves.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

“What?” Dev says. “Oh, don't worry about me. This has been, like, the best night of my life.”

I forgot how much some people admire Agatha. I used to be one of them. I fully understand what it's like to be under her spell.

“I know what you mean. She's pretty great,” I say.

He nods. “Maybe you should check on Baz.”

“Yeah, good idea,” I say, getting up. But not before finishing the rest of Baz’s wine. 

Despite what just happened, I am worried about Baz. I hope I didn't cross any lines with that kiss.

 

####  **Baz**

What. The. Fuck. Was. That.

What was Snow thinking? Didn’t he say his desire to make Wellbelove jealous was hypothetical? That he didn’t want to kiss me in front of her?

So what happened? 

Not that it was a bad kiss. It was my best kiss ever. My only kiss, if you don’t count Minnie Lanyon, and why would I count her? (It was during a game of Truth or Dare, and we were eleven).

I don’t want to kiss anyone else for the rest of my life.

Stupid Simon Snow and his perfect fucking everything. Perfect jaw, perfect moles, perfect hands.

I’ve never wanted to be straight more than I do in this moment.

Someone is knocking on the stall door.

“Occupied,” I say loudly. They’re lucky I didn’t tell them to fuck off, whoever they are.

“It’s Simon.”

“Fuck off,” I say.

“Let me in,” he says. “Please? I got carried away. Just, please let me in.”

I open the door. He steps inside and locks the door behind him.

He says, “We’re supposed to be dating. It's about time we started acting like it.”

I never thought I would live to hear Snow using logic to defend kissing me. His argument is airtight. That doesn’t mean I want to hear it.

“Come on,” he says, hooking a finger through one of my belt loops. “Was the kiss really that bad?”

“Enough, Simon!” I say, pushing him, wiping his grin away. “Last week I was perfectly happy being in the closet. And then you we should fake date, and now you kiss me?! It’s all just too much. You need to back the fuck off and let me go at my own pace!”

“Baz, I didn’t—” he says. “It’s not like that. I didn’t kiss you to keep up appearances.”

“Then why did you?” I say.

"Because you were sitting there looking at me  _like that_ ," he gestures to me with his hand, “and the wine and...I couldn’t help myself.”

What is he saying? He thinks I look good tonight? Has he seen himself in a mirror?

“So...you kissed me because you wanted to?” I say.

“I guess so.”

Simon Snow kissed me because he wanted to.

He's probably just horny since Wellbelove broke up with him.

Simon Snow kissed me because he wanted to.

Maybe he actually fancies me. No, that could never happen. I know it could never happen.

Still, that kiss he gave me will sustain me for the next few years. Until graduation at the very least.

His lips are so soft. His nose brushed against mine. 

Why is he looking at me like that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. I think the next chapter might contain a bit more than kissing. Fair warning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses and uncertainty.

####  **Simon**

The light in the stall is bouncing off Baz’s skin in a way that makes my stomach flip. 

That turtleneck is a bloody godsend.

As is his body. And his mind. And his voice, even his breath. 

This is the best smelling toilet I’ve ever been in, all because of Baz. He smells (and looks) like a Calvin Klein cologne model. 

Scratch that. He’s way too rich to wear anything that cheap. I’m sure the price of whatever cologne he’s wearing would make me angry. There are much better uses for money than smelling nice, but I can’t say I care at the moment.

Baz smells like spicy oranges and aged wood, and it’s giving me strength. I don’t even know if that makes sense.

My hand is on his chest, and he looks terrified.

What’s he frightened of? 

I won’t hurt him.

I want to kiss him again. 

In the three years I dated Agatha, I never wanted to kiss her as much as I want to kiss the boy in front of me. 

I want to kiss a boy. Not a boy. This boy. Baz. I want to kiss my roommate who used to hate me.

I move my hands down to his waist. I stretch my mouth towards his.

He stops me with a hand to my chest. He touches me with just his fingertips, like he thinks he might break me.

“Simon,” he says.

I don’t know if I’ve had too much wine, but the usually sharp lines of his face are soft just now. I’m looking at his beautiful silver eyes. It feels a bit like I’m inside a kaleidoscope. Not in the way that there’s 12 of him. More in the surreal feeling you get when you look inside one.

His cheeks are red and I want to take his fear away. He has nothing to worry about.

I move in again.

Our second kiss lasts less than a second. I pull back and resist the urge to lick my lips.

Am I in trouble? 

This moment has gone on longer than any moment ever before. 

His eyes are tractor beams. I realize I’m moving towards him again.

No.

No matter how much I want to kiss him, I can’t ignore his feelings. If he doesn’t want to kiss me—and he clearly doesn’t—then I should stop right now. Leave him be.

I pull back.

“Fuck it,” he says, and literally crashes his face into mine, mouth first.

He cradles my head between his hands. They’re so soft.

I step in to get closer to him. I need to be closer.

He’s bending down and I’m stretching up. We’re moving in waves. He’s pushing me with his mouth and I’m rolling backwards. It’s like we’re dancing.

This is the best night of my entire life.

 

####  **Baz**

This is the best night of my entire life.

Simon is kissing me. I'm kissing him. We're kissing. Breaking Rule 2. 

I know I created that rule for a reason, but for the life of me I don't remember what the reason was.

Anyway I had incomplete information. I hadn't known when I came up with the rule how Simon’s nose brushes against mine as we change the position of our heads while we kiss. I didn't know he was so skilled with his tongue. 

I am as terrified as I am aroused. I'm worried that he'll find me to be a bad kisser, that he's drunk, that he'll call this whole thing off in the morning. I'm worried I'm taking advantage of him and our situation.

He pulls back and smiles at me.

“There's something I want to try,” he says, pulling down my turtleneck from where it sits near my jaw. He starts sucking my neck. 

Simon Snow is a monster. There's no other explanation. How else could someone make my heart beat this fast? My whole left side (the side of my neck Simon is currently sucking) feels more awake than my right. It feels ticklish almost, like when someone whispers in your ear. 

Waves of pleasure radiate from the point Simon is sucking. One wave crashes over my chest, and I feel my left nipple harden. The next wave goes down to my left arm, the one after that reaches my left foot. He's clearly poisoning me, forcing my muscles to constrict.

That doesn't make any fucking sense.

“I like when you moan,” he says, pulling back with a loud _Pop!_

Have I been moaning?

He's smiling at me again, waiting for me to say something. 

“Christ, Simon, don't stop now!” I say, bringing his mouth back down to my neck. 

He resumes his sucking, and I bite down on his collarbone, right through his suit. 

What is wrong with me? 

What a pair we make—two infants, one nursing from a neck, the other teething on a bone. There's something Freudian and deeply disturbing about that, but I don't give a damn.

My mind is concentrating elsewhere, on this boy's smell and taste and feel. He smells like cinnamon and he tastes a bit like tomato sauce and his body heat is furnacelike.

For a moment I see myself, as if in a movie, walking through the rain in London a few years from now, shaking my umbrella as I step in the lobby of my building, getting the post and getting in the elevator, announcing “I'm home!” as I enter my flat, our flat, and Simon greeting me with a kiss and saying, “I made cookies,” and me kissing him and him holding me and us leaning back to look at each other. We love each other.

Now he's running his thumb along my waist, beneath my slacks, under my pants. 

Can we do this every night? Please, God, I don't want much. Just let me keep this incredible boy.

At the same time I have this thought, Simon gropes my dick, palms it through the fabric of my slacks.

This has a two-pronged effect. First, it sends a desirous shiver through me so severe I have to push Simon away. Second, it brings me out of the clouds and back down to reality. The feeling is disorientating, like what I imagine a rubber band would feel like, having been stretched nearly to its limit and then snapped violently back to its resting position. 

I'm surprised there wasn't an audible _Snap!_ when Simon groped me. 

I pull away and look at him. I have the sudden urge to vomit.

He’s standing between me and the door. 

“Baz…” he says.

“I need to go,” I say, and push around him as gently and quickly as I can.

I remind myself not to run as I make my way out of the restaurant. I take a circuitous route to avoid seeing Dev, or rather for him to avoid seeing me.

I’m not sure where to go, but I know I can’t be near Simon.

I need to get away. Away.

The word becomes a mantra as I walk, not knowing where I’m going, other than away from Simon.

Away. Away. Away.

Away.

 

####  **Simon**

I fucked up.

I kissed Baz and then he kissed me, and I guess we went too far too fast because he ran right out of the stall, right out of the restaurant.

I was too embarrassed and unsure to follow him. 

When I emerged a few minutes later, Dev was still sitting at our table, but Baz was nowhere in sight. Not that I expected him to have returned to the table, but a part of me was hoping we could continue the fake-date.

I had to make an excuse for Baz. I didn’t really mind. Lying for Baz, because of Baz, has become almost second nature to me the past several days.

Dev asked if Baz was all right, and I told him Baz thought he may have eaten some dodgy shrimp and had returned to our dorm. Dev accepted my lie without question, which was surprising to me. I guess I’m so used to dealing with Penny, who would have asked five or six follow-up questions. Dev simply shrugged. We stayed for another 15 minutes or so, and then Dev paid the bill and we left. 

He’s a funny guy, Dev. I never expected Baz would have friends who were funny. I wonder if Baz thinks Dev is funny. I’ll have to ask him. If he ever talks to me again, that is.

Like I said, I think I fucked up pretty bad this time.

This is new territory for us. I’m not sure what to do. I know how to handle the aftermath of a fight with Baz, but I have no idea what to do in the aftermath of a makeout session with him.

I made out with Baz Pitch.

What is my life right now?

I’m sitting on my bed in our dorm. It’s been more than two hours since Baz left the restaurant, and I don’t know where he is. 

I’m worried about him. I broke Rule 2. I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist. Anyone would have wanted to kiss him the way he was looking. 

I’m still turned on just thinking about it.

Maybe he ran away out of kindness. Maybe he didn’t like kissing me nearly as much as I liked kissing him. Maybe he’d had a little wine and thought _Why not?_ and then got cold feet once we actually went for it. 

What if he wants to go back to the way things were?

I don’t know if I could take that. Between hitting Baz and kissing him, there is no comparison: kissing is better. Way better. 

He was driving me mad when he moaned as I sucked his neck. 

I want to do it again. I don’t know if I’ll get the chance.

I’m such a moron. Why did I have to kiss him so soon? Especially after he had just told me I was going too fast with him.

I’ve texted him a few times over the past couple hours. A _Hey_ , a _Where are you?_ , an _I’ll wait up for you_.

But I haven’t said sorry. I should. 

I pull out my phone and type: _Baz, I’m sorry. I crossed the line. I broke your rule. I just couldn’t help it. I’m sorry._

I would say it won’t happen again, but I don’t want to lie. Not to him, not right now.

I watch my phone like a hawk, waiting to see if he’ll respond. 

Three dots pop up on the screen. He’s typing a response.

The dots disappear moments later, and I’m not sure if I imagined them or not. I did have some wine at dinner, but I think it’s worn off by now.

_I know you're there. I saw the dots._

A few minutes go by. Nothing. Maybe playing cute and dumb will work.

_Pleeeeeeease answer._

Still nothing.

Now he's making me mad. It was one kiss. Or three kisses, whatever. 

 _Stop acting like a baby_ , I text him, but I instantly regret it. 

This is not the time to provoke him. Not when he's giving me radio silence.

_I didn't mean that._

_But I don't get why you won't just talk to me._

Why won't he? Where is he? When will he come back?

 

####  **Baz**

Snow keeps texting me. I have to remind myself to call him Snow in my mind. I realized shortly after I left dinner that I have at some point during all this madness started referring to him as Simon in my head.

Thinking of him as Snow instead of Simon may not seem like a big deal, but it is to me. Snow is the boy who has punched me, who is always the center of attention, who has tried to get me expelled multiple times. Simon is the boy I dream about, the boy I care about, the boy I kissed in the stall a few hours ago. 

Snow is the boy I pretend to hate. Simon is the boy I pretend not to love. That seemingly small distinction is the axis on which my world rotates. If it is skewed even slightly, if its angle varies even one degree from where I believe it to be, I don't know what I'll do.

I'm beyond tempted to go back to the dorm and kiss him all night. But I can't. I know I can't. I would wake up in the morning with no heart, no skin, just bones and ash. He would burn me up. Not intentionally. I think I know him well enough to know he is not that cruel, but the outcome would be the same. At some point I would profess my undying love for him, and he would be appalled, and he would run away, and he would destroy me.

As much as I want to kiss him and keep kissing him, I value my survival more. It says a lot about his power over me that I'm even considering returning to the dorm right now when I know the most probable (and most painful) outcome.

My phone buzzes again.

_You're going to break curfew if you don't come back soon._

Snow is right. It's nearly half-ten, and curfew is eleven on Fridays and Saturdays.

I close the book I've been sitting here not reading, put it back on its shelf where it belongs, wave to the cashier on my way out of The Catacombs.

I knew it was a risk coming to a spot Snow knows about, but logic was silenced by emotion in this instance. There is only one cure I've ever known for discomfort (well, two if you count time), and that is comfort. The Catacombs is where I'm most comfortable, where I feel safest. So this is where I came.

And I'd be lying if I said some part of me didn't want Snow to find me here. To run after me and know me well enough to come here and make some Richard Curtis-like monologue about how he's always loved me. 

I smile to myself at how silly I'm being. Snow does not and will not ever love me. 

He does keep saying he couldn't help himself, that that is why he kissed me. I assume he means he was feeling drunk and lonely and all this gay stuff had him feeling curious and experimental.

I can't blame Snow for what happened. He didn't know the pain he would cause me by doing what he did. 

I've spent most nights this week thinking about secrets. About how Snow is helping me take one of my biggest secrets and turn it into something everyone knows about me. He's helping me turn a secret into strength. 

That would be impossible with my other secret, though. My real secret. The one I will never tell anyone as long as I live—that I love my roommate. The kind of gushing, sickly sweet love that makes you feel ill when you see it in other people. I love Snow so much, I've never been able to find the right words to describe it. 

The ineffability of my love for Snow is what led me to The Catacombs in the first place. Was there anyone out there who could understand my love, who could help me understand it? And I was beyond pleased to discover so many who seemed to know what I was feeling. Shakespeare and Austen and Nabokov, and, to a lesser extent but still important, people like Nicholas Sparks and John Green.

These people have become like my friends over the years. To know someone's writing, I think, is to know them intimately. I've spent countless hours with these great writers attempting to understand love, all because of the boy who won't stop texting me.

Snow is right. I'm about to miss curfew. I should be getting back. I'll stay with Niall tonight, reassess what to do about Snow tomorrow.

_Go to bed, Snow. I'm fine._

There. I texted him back. I hope he's happy. Really, I do. I simply don't have the energy (or is it courage) to see him again tonight. 

Sleep well, Simon. My beautiful boy.

 

####  **Simon**

Baz texted me to go to bed. That almost made me throw my phone across the room. Who does he think he is, telling me what to do?

Like I'm his fucking plaything and he can do what he wants with me. Kiss me, run away, ghost me for hours, and then tell me to go to bed. 

As soon as I got his text I went over to his bed in a rage and tossed both his pillows across the room. Because I know he hates when anyone messes with his bed. It’s something I haven’t done in years. Something I used to do a lot. It’s childish, I know, but I was angry.

I still am angry.

What is he playing at, kissing me—because he definitely kissed me the third time—and then running off? 

Well I’m not going to bed. I’m waiting right here until he comes back. I don’t care if he comes back tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be awake, sitting right here on my bed.

It’s not going to be pretty. I’m already thinking of all the things I’ll shout, all the insults I will sling at him.

So he doesn’t want to kiss me ever again. So he doesn’t find me as fit as I find him. That’s fine. He can just tell me. He doesn’t have to be a coward and avoid me like he’s doing.

He doesn’t want to kiss me ever again.

The thought makes my inner chest ache. I feel hot tears forming in my eyes, and I try my best to stop them from spilling over.

I fail. They fall, and fresh tears replace them.

I haven’t cried over something Baz has done to me for a long time.

Why did it have to be a kiss? What’s wrong with me?

I grab a tissue and blow my nose, wipe my eyes.

Penny was right. She said it would be a miracle if Baz and I lasted through the weekend.

And miracles don’t happen. Not in my experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Thanks for all the comments!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall, Northridge. A bit of fluff and angst.

####  Baz

I barely slept last night. Snow was on my mind. 

Usually when I think of Snow late at night it is with the warm expectation that I'll be with him in my dreams.

This was an entirely new experience. Wondering whether I should “break up” with Snow, confess my feelings, bury my emotions and suffer.

I still do not know what to do.

I think I had a panic attack.

I was lying down when my heartbeat suddenly picked up its pace. It wasn't painful. Nor was it pleasant. For several minutes I could not move. My limbs were leaden. I focused on breathing. And just as it seemed like my heart would beat itself right out of my chest, it all stopped. I could breathe and move again.

Niall's guest bed was soaked with my sweat by the time I fell asleep (Niall has never had a roommate at Watford, so his room has a spare bed).

When I woke up, I decided to go to the gym. Niall came with me. I didn't expect him to say yes when I asked him. But then, between him and Dev, Niall is the more unpredictable one.

Niall immediately went to the treadmill when we got here—he's not really the type to lift weights—but I felt like a leg workout. I find leg days to be the most painful and therefore best to help me forget about Snow.

It's quite early for a Sunday. Not many people are here. Anyone not in a mindfuck of a fake relationship with the boy they love has better things to do right now than exercising as an emotional escape.

I've always preferred working out in an empty gym. That's why I normally come here first thing in the morning.

Unlike with running, I cannot allow myself to be distracted with thoughts of Snow when I workout. Losing concentration for even a moment would mean certain injury.

I've got to focus all of my attention on the exercise I'm doing. I look at myself in the mirror to watch my form, see the struggle and determination on my own face. 

Is that a hickey on my neck? Obviously Snow’s doing. The menace. 

Don’t think about him right now, Basil.

Ignore the hickey. Focus on the weight. Breathe.

Good.

There's something addicting about lifting weights. Watching your muscles swell, feeling your heart race, thinking you can’t lift the weight again then being proud when you do. 

This has been the best workout I've had in weeks. My legs feel wobbly by the time I'm done. I've probably overdone it. At least there's not a practice scheduled today. 

When I finish my final exercise—planks, always planks—I go fetch Niall from the treadmill. 

He doesn't notice as I approach him. I see he's run nearly 10 kilometers. I'm impressed, but I can't resist messing with him. 

My arm is a striking snake as I rip the emergency stop tab off the treadmill in a flash. Niall stumbles as the treadmill comes to a sudden stop. He turns and sees me grinning beside him.

“You prat,” he says, and I laugh.

“What?” I say.

“That wasn't funny, Basil,” Niall says, stepping off the treadmill. “You could have hurt me.” 

He walks away towards the drinking fountain.

This is what I appreciate most about Niall. Dev would have just laughed it off, maybe punched me on the arm, but Niall has allowed himself to be upset. He makes it clear when I’ve stepped over the line. That can be refreshing, considering I don’t know where the lines are with everyone else in my life. Especially with Snow.

Snow.

What was that last night?

I do not blame him for kissing me. That sounds egotistical, but I don't mean it to be. I just mean Snow has always been guided more by his emotions than by logic or reason. If he felt like kissing me—and he said he did—it squares completely with what I know of Snow that he would simply lean forward and kiss me, consequences be damned. 

It’s me I blame. I kissed him. In the stall. The third time. I was the one who leaned forward, who fell on Snow like a typical sexed up teenager. 

I feel like a superhero whose secret identity was nearly exposed last night. Testosterone is evidently my kryptonite—well, testosterone and that bloody grey suit Snow wore. I allowed myself to lose control. That cannot happen again. I won’t let it. Snow deserves more than that. More than me.

I have to talk to him. Explain things without over-explaining them. That is going to be quite a difficult conversation to have.

Niall and I are walking out of the gym when I see Northridge walking towards us. I don't want to deal with him right now. I walk by him as if I don't notice him. 

_Please keep walking. Please keep walking. Don't talk to me,_ I think. 

“Where are you off to, Pitch?” says Northridge. 

I turn around. Northridge’s big blocky head is beaming an ugly smile.

“Going to toss off your boyfriend? Or is this your new boyfriend? Hello, hello,” Northridge says, looking at Niall, before turning back to me. “Already moved on from Snow, then? What's the matter? His dick was too small for you?”

I can't focus on anything. All I want to do is hurt Northridge. Punch him. Scratch him. Cut his throat. Cause him as much pain as possible. 

If he says one more thing about Simon, I'll rip his fat tongue out.

I see a blur of movement. I hear a thud and a groan. 

Northridge is on the ground, and Niall is standing over him like Muhammad Ali.

“Don't talk about my friends like that,” Niall says.

“Holy shit,” I say, and laugh the most triumphant laugh I've ever laughed. 

Like I said, Niall is unpredictable, but he also lets you know when you've crossed the line. 

Northridge’s homophobia + Niall’s adrenaline = Niall thumps Northridge. 

Sometimes mathematics is beautiful.

Northridge has a hand over his bleeding nose.

“You broke my nose, you twat,” says Northridge. I can tell he's angry, but he won't try anything. He's a total coward.

The pragmatist in me is telling me we need to leave, but I really want to frame this picture in my memory forever. 

Just a few more seconds. Okay. 

“We should go,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” says Niall, and we scurry away.

 

####  Simon

Okay, my plan did not work. 

I fell asleep. It was past three o’clock in the morning when I gave up. 

I wanted to be awake, still dressed, ready to give Baz the verbal hiding of a lifetime when he got back, but I was just too tired.

So now it’s half-ten, I'm hungry, and I’ve been awake for a while, but Baz still hasn’t shown his face. 

He must know what’s coming. We’ve lived together for years. He must know how angry I am, and he’s afraid to face me, the coward.

I can tell he didn’t come in when I was asleep—his pillows are still on the floor—so I guess my plan could still work.

I could make my bed, get dressed, and act as if I hadn't slept when he finally came in. But what’s the point? I’m still angry at Baz, but not as angry as I was last night.

I told Agatha it had been a mad week for me. I was telling the truth. When I stop to think about it, this has been one of the strangest weeks of my life.

Strange as it's been for me, it must have been even stranger for Baz. I'm not the one everyone is whispering about when they see us together. A gay theatre kid is normal; a gay football kid, though, is anything but normal. Not too mention that this is only the first week Baz and I have talked to each other since...ever. 

And that kiss last night. Kisses. 

Mad week, indeed.

I should cut Baz some slack. It's my fault his week has been so stressful in the first place. What kind of...whatever I am to Baz would I be if I yelled at him for being scared or confused? A not very good one.

I look at his pillows again resting on the floor. He hates that so much.

Okay I'm not even that mad anymore. I just want to see him. I want to hug him. I want him to tell me everything is fine between us. 

I sigh, deciding not to yell when Baz gets back. 

_If he gets back_ , I correct myself, as I stoop to pick up his pillows.

I hear a commotion and turn around. Baz and a boy who I think is named Niall have just entered the room.

There is a moment of silence before the pair of them burst into laughter. I'm still holding Baz’s pillow when they notice me.

“You're Simon, right? We've never been properly introduced. I'm Niall,” he walks up to me and offers me his hand. I drop the pillow and shake his hand. His palm is very sweaty. 

I like his accent. Irish but only vaguely. 

I’ve seen him before. I've even let him in our room before when Baz was at practice, but I never thought it was appropriate to ask his name. I guess everything has changed now since Baz and I started dating. 

Assuming Baz hasn't broken Rule Number 1, Niall must believe I'm Baz’s actual boyfriend.

I have to make a good impression. 

“Niall,” I nod. “It's so nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you.”

My eyes automatically go to Baz’s face. He smirks. He has never told me anything about his mates. Everything I know about them, I learned from someone else.

The statement seems to please Niall. He smiles slightly. Perhaps he's too shy to respond. 

“Where are you two coming from?” I say.

“We were at the gym, but we...ran into some trouble,” Baz says.

A wave of anger flashes through me at the sound of his voice. I hate how normal his answer is. He wasn't out getting drunk, or “cheating” on me. He didn't run away from Watford. No, he got up early and went to the gym. Like any other Sunday.

He must register the wrath on my face because his expression seems pained. As if he is the one who was emotionally hurt last night.

Confusion replaces anger as I'm left wondering what Baz is thinking.

“What kind of trouble?” I say.

“Northridge,” says Niall. “That fat git.”

“What did he say this time?” I say to Baz.

Baz opens his mouth and then closes it again. Now his expression is closer to terror than hurt. What is with him?

“He insulted you and Baz,” Niall says.

“So Niall thumped him,” says Baz.

“Did you really?” I say, unable to control my enthusiasm.

“Um, yes, I did. Not that I'm proud of it,” Niall says, left hand rubbing his right. I can see now that his knuckles are red. 

Wow. I guess it's true.

“Brilliant,” I say, and two big laughs come out of me before I can stop them. 

“It was,” Baz agrees. “We’re pretty sure Niall broke his nose.”

“I'm just worried he’ll go crying to Meriweather. He seems the type,” Niall says.

“Don't worry about that,” I say. They both look at me. “Being the headmaster’s favorite has its advantages.”

“Brilliant,” Niall smiles. I smile back. 

Even Baz looks pleased, despite how much I know he hates the headmaster.

“Listen, maybe you should hang out here for a while. I wouldn't put it past Northridge to gather his goons and come looking for you guys,” I say, mainly because I don't want Baz to leave. 

“Perhaps you're right,” says Niall. “Would you mind if I used your shower?”

“Not at all,” I say. “You can borrow some of my clothes. I think we're about the same size.” I hand him clean clothes from my wardrobe.

“Thanks, Simon,” says Niall.

“Don’t mention it,” I say, and Niall steps into our bathroom. The shower turns on moments later. 

Now it's just Baz and me. Like it's always been. 

 

####  Baz

Simon and I are alone now. Niall is washing up. 

I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do. 

Should I start with an apology? Should I let Snow talk first? Should I stay silent until Niall emerges and then never speak to Snow again? 

Okay, that last one was mad, I know. 

My pillows are on the floor for some reason. 

I'm guessing Snow threw them across the room in a fit of rage. Wouldn't be the first time. 

Ordinarily I would be furious, but nothing about this situation is ordinary. 

Snow walks up to me silently. I cannot tell from his blank expression is he wants to kiss me or kill me. 

I close my eyes when he's a foot away. It seems I am a coward when it comes to being Snow's boyfriend. Fake boyfriend. 

Grimms aren't made of strong stuff, Father. Not when it comes to love.

I feel arms wrap around my ribs. Simon squeezes me tightly.

“Hi,” he says.

“Snow, I'm all sweaty,” I say, hoping he'll release me. I cannot deal with this right now. Some of my sweaty hair touches his face. 

“I don't care,” he says. “I'm glad you're back.”

My throat catches at that. I'm unable to speak. So I hug him back. Why not? He is so warm, and he smells so familiar. 

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“Let's talk about it later,” he says, letting go of me. “For now, I want to hear exactly what happened with Northridge.” 

“All right,” I say, and I smile as wide as I've ever smiled because he's smiling the same way.

He doesn't hate me. We just hugged, and I can't help feeling happy. 

Today is a good day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses and more.

#### Baz

Niall hung around our dorm the rest of the day. After he finished showering, I showered, leaving Niall with Snow. 

The mystery of their discussion gave me massive anxiety.

After my shower, I covered my hickey with concealer. If Snow or Niall noticed, they didn’t say anything, for which I was extremely grateful.

We played Scrabble for hours, Niall and I taking turns winning, with Snow always finishing firmly and hilariously in third.

Words are not his bag, as he put it, which only made us laugh harder. 

The sun went down, and we did not hear a peep from Northridge, Meriweather, or anyone else.

Snow made tea. Peppermint. It's his favorite, and Niall liked it too. The day felt effortless but also confusing. 

On the one hand I recognized the danger such days put me in, deepening my obsessive wish to have a future with Snow. But on the other hand, I could not help feeling content—beyond content really, I felt triumphant—whenever I looked at Snow and Niall and saw them smiling. 

There were moments earlier when I caught Snow staring at me just as he had before he kissed me. I’m glad he did not try for another kiss. 

Though I cannot deny how much I’ve wanted to kiss him all day. This time yesterday I was sure that no earthly force could heighten my desire to kiss Simon Snow. 

I was of course mistaken. There is only one thing that can heighten one’s desire to kiss Simon Snow, and that is _kissing Simon Snow_.

Knowing the noises he makes, and the care he takes, and his softness and warmth—I want to kiss him every day for the rest of my life.

Withdrawals after one kiss. I really am losing my nerve. 

Snow is sitting at his desk now, uttering Juliet’s lines under his breath, and I am reading a book on my bed. 

Perhaps this will become our nightly routine. We will become an intellectual couple who reads before bed.

“Do you ever think Shakespeare may have been a pedo?” Snow says, turning to face me. “I mean, why was he fantasizing about a 13-year-old girl having sex?”

It’s the first thing he has said to me since Niall left more than an hour ago. 

So much for being an intellectual couple. Did I ever wonder if William Shakespeare was a pedophile? Honestly.

“You never fantasized about seeing Wellbelove nude at that age?” I ask.

“Well, yes, I guess I did. But that’s different. We were both 13 at the time. Shakespeare was like 30 when he wrote this. Don’t you think that’s sort of gross?”

I put my book down.

“I haven't thought about it,” I say. “But let’s accept your premise. Say Shakespeare was an actual pedophile, would that change how you feel about _Romeo and Juliet_?”

“It might do,” he says.

“Only inasmuch as it changes how you feel about him as a person. But Shakespeare's words and Shakespeare the man are two different things…These violent delights have violent ends...Prodigious birth of love it is to me, that I must love a sworn enemy...Does it really matter who wrote those words?”

“It does to me,” Snow says.

“Why?” I say.

“Because I don’t want to be saying the words that some sick pedo thought up 400 years ago,” he says defiantly. He looks so delectable when his lips thin like that and his brow creases.

I laugh. 

“Fair enough,” I say. “But remember, Snow, that play is about the dangers of unchecked love and passion. Juliet being so young is as much a plot device as anything else. She has to be young and impetuous for the play to end the way it does. They have to be love-struck teenagers. Juliet has to be, in a sense, a silly little girl.”

He has gone quiet. He won’t look at me. A crestfallen expression replaces his defiant one.

Why is he sad? What did I say?

“I get it,” he says. “Silly little girls do stupid things like secretly marrying a cute boy they've just met, or kissing their roommate in a toilet stall. Got it.”

He turns back around, and my insides go cold as I realize how he must have interpreted my words.

Does Snow seriously think I was comparing him to Juliet? Because I wasn't.

Though one cannot help seeing the similarities between Juliet and Snow. He is guided more by emotion than anyone else I've ever met. Still, seeing him upset like this over something I said is nearly unbearable. 

“Snow,” I say. He ignores me.

“Snow,” I say again, and again he ignores me. 

Then I'll speak to the back of his head.

“Simon, I don't think you're a silly little girl. I was speaking about Juliet objectively. It was purely academic.”

 

#### Simon

Here’s that old feeling. I don't know what to call it. It's like embarrassment and rage and shame all at once.

Only Baz can make me feel this way.

“That’s what you meant, though,” I say. “You meant that I was silly like Juliet.”

“Don't tell me what I was thinking, Snow. You're not inside my head. Besides, haven't you got enough trouble with your own thoughts?” says Baz, unruffled.

Of course. Go after my intelligence. He's so predictable.

“Good. I wouldn't want to be inside your head. It's a nasty place where you think you're better than everyone when actually you're just a coward!” 

I'm standing now. 

“A coward, am I?” he says, standing to confront me. “And tell me, Snow, how exactly am I a coward?”

He can be quite intimidating when he wants to be, but I'm years past being afraid of Baz Pitch. Physically, at least.

“If I tell you, you'll run away,” I say. 

“I'm right here,” he says.

There's a buzz between us. A pre-fight buzz. It's a shame. Things were going well, I thought. 

But every man has his breaking point. I guess mine is when Baz kisses me, then runs away, and then the next day he calls me a silly little girl for kissing him. 

That is my breaking point.

He asked for it.

“I kissed you, then you full-on snogged me. Then you ran away. How is that not being a coward? And now you call me a silly little girl? Well you're just a scared little boy.”

His frowns but recovers quickly.

“I never said that!” he shouts. “We were talking about Shakespeare, you imbecile. Only Shakespeare. Not you!”

So he's going to ignore everything else I said? Okay.

“Even if you were just talking about Juliet, it takes guts to kiss the guy you fancy. Lots of people have a crush and never do anything about it. Have you ever taken the risk and kissed your crush? No! You haven't! Have you ever even had a crush? Or are crushes too ordinary for the brilliant Basilton Pitch?”

Two weeks ago, this fight would have already turned physical, or Baz would've legged it by now.

He's not running though. He's frozen in place. Now it looks like he's coming out of a trance.

“You...fancy me?” he says.

“I don’t know!” I scream, and angry tears start forming in my eyes. Just like last night.

Why is this happening now?

I turn around to hide from him, though I know it won’t do any good.

I feel him getting closer. He's cold. He always accuses me of being warm, but I think he's just unnaturally cold. 

“Simon,” he says, in the softest voice I've ever heard him use.

“Don't say anything,” I say. “Just—”

He spins me around, and his lips are on mine before I know what's happening. My eyes go wide as his close, and it strikes me how funny we must look right now. 

A giggle pops out of my mouth, against Baz’s lips, and he opens his eyes. 

I pull away to laugh for real.

Baz is staring at me, waiting on an explanation. I don't want him to think I'm laughing at his kissing ability. He's a brilliant kisser. Leaps and bounds better than Agatha.

“We're a bloody mess,” I say, tears still streaming down my face. 

He considers this, and then he is laughing too. 

I love his laugh. I love to be the cause of it.

We need to stop talking. Stop thinking. We need to keep kissing. Yes. Let's do that. 

I push him back until the back of his knees hit my bed. He lets out a panicked “Snow!” just before he falls back, and I fall on top of him. 

I kiss his lips for only a few seconds before another part of him grabs my attention. First his jaw, then his neck, then his collarbones and cheeks. It's not enough. 

Will it ever be enough?

Baz grabs my arms at first. His hands move down my body as my lips move down his. By the time I'm at his neck, his strong hands are on my hips. 

He needs some encouragement.

I grab his wrist and move his hand to my arse. I smile at him and he smiles as his left hand slides to join his right.

He is trying his best not to moan, but I've managed to get a few good ones out of him. He put makeup over the hickey I gave him yesterday. That won't do. I want to admire my handiwork.

 

#### Baz

I'm kissing Simon again. 

I am through questioning whether this whole thing is real. I am simply going to, as they say, live in the moment. And at the moment I'm kissing Simon again.

He pulls away from my mouth and kisses my jaw, then my neck. 

He apparently wants me to grab his arse. So I do.

“ _Yuuuuurgh_ ,” Snow spits. He reaches across me to the bedside table, where there is a box of Kleenex.

“Did you just lick my neck?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says.

“Why?” I say.

He flushes. I love it when he does that. 

He mumbles something unintelligible, and the only word I register is hickey. So he did notice that I covered it up. 

Before I can ask another question he says, “And then I wondered what makeup would taste like, so I decided to try it.”

“And how was it?” I say, surprised at how calm my voice sounds despite how frantically my heart is beating.

“It tasted like dirty soap,” he says, wiping his tongue with the tissue.

I stare at him.

“I don't know how to describe it,” he says. “Just—shut up.” He stands and says, “I’m going to brush my teeth. Don’t go anywhere.” He walks away, pauses, turns back towards me, “I mean it.”

I nod.

Snow was right earlier. Kissing your crush does take guts. I’ve kissed him twice now and the fiery feeling of uncertainty mixed with desire has yet to cool by even a degree.

He was also right when he said crushes are too ordinary for me. I find teenage crushes to be so cliché they are almost passé. Very French indeed. But I don’t believe what I feel for Snow could be construed as a crush. That is much too weak a word. 

In many ways, our relationship has been like a marriage. A one-sided marriage. For years I have thought about him constantly. In the morning, and in the shower, and during football games, and while reading and sleeping and eating.

It used to be that I would miss him when I was away from him, and I would miss him even more when I was with him. Knowing that I had to live so close to him but that I could never have him was torture.

And we were just snogging on his bed. 

The instinct to flee is tugging at me, tapping its watch with its finger.

Not today. I will not be a coward today.

I hear Snow spit. The tap turns off. The door opens, and he walks so quickly back to me I would tease him if I was less afraid to speak.

In his haste to pick up where we left off, he leaps upon the bed, his face coming very near to mine, and he says, “Hi.”

He's so cute I cannot help the “Hey” that comes out of me.

“Can I—?” he says. His cheeks flush once again. I want to know what he will ask, but I also want to taste the mint flavor I can smell on his breath. I'm not sure which I want more.

“Can you what, Snow?”

“Can I take your shirt off?” he says, hiding his face from me, ostensibly because it's gone a shade of deep red.

I'm thankful. My face has probably gone a similar shade of red.

He wants me to be shirtless. If I assent to his request, am I to expect reciprocal undressing on his part? If only. 

“I suppose,” I say.

His lovely hands reach for my shirt. I sit up to help him pull my shirt off.

I look at him as he looks at my naked torso.. 

Though he's seen me like this a thousand times, I feel exposed in a way I've not done before. He is looking at me with lust in his eyes. I've seen that look in his eyes in my dreams and fantasies.

“Oh my god,” he says quietly. I guess he's pleased.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing to his upper-half.

“Of course,” he says. How can two words cause me to melt so? I pull his shirt off as delicately as I can manage.

I'm speechless at his shirtlessness. I must admit, some lessons are fun to learn. The importance of context is most certainly one such lesson. Though I always appreciate a shirtless Snow, a shirtless Snow whose shirt was doffed by my hand is perhaps the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

We resume making out.

Some indeterminate period of time passes, and he palms my bulge, which has been pulsing each time he does something new with his mouth. 

His groping is cautious and kind. Perhaps he is asking with his hand what he is too embarrassed (or preoccupied) to ask with his mouth.

_Is this all right?_

The coward within me is pleading and pulling in earnest. He wants us to flee. I ran last night when Snow got handsy. Not this time.

My heart has somehow picked up its pace—a feat I wouldn't have thought possible two minutes ago.

I am acutely aware of the sheen of sweat that has broken out across my exposed torso.

The coward within is yelling now. 

_Come! On! Let's! Go!_

I'm not going anywhere. 

I squeeze Snow’s arse as if to say, _Yes, it's all right._  

I am much too afraid to give verbal consent of a question never actually asked. The coward within is winning the small battles, at least.

Snow fills his hand with me, and I fill mine with him.

He starts pulling my joggers down. He once again doesn't ask, and I once again don't answer. 

If I'm to stop him, it must be now or never. 

I am not stopping him. He's got my joggers down near my ankles now. There's only my pants left. He very slowly, but still much too quickly pulls those down too. 

My dick springs to life.

If someone were to ask what my most embarrassing memory was, I would tell them right now, this instant, when Simon Snow has me in the most vulnerable position anyone's ever had me in. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers, and I feel the hole inside me—through which my stomach seemed to drop just now—begin to close.

Then he is taking me into his mouth, and the only two words on my mind are _Simon_ and _blowjob_. 

I'm nervous and scared. This should be the greatest moment of my life, but I cannot let myself enjoy it. 

Indeed, when it's over I am disappointed by how ordinary my orgasm feels. It is not earth shattering, like in the porn or fanfiction. I've had better orgasms wanking.

“Thanks for the warning,” Snow says. “I was kind of worried, you know, about…swallowing.”

His voice brings me back to myself. The bubble has popped again. The fantasy is finished. 

“Hm?” I say. “Oh, erm, no problem.”

I'm a spent mess of sweat and semen. I'm exhausted, and a bit dizzy. 

Snow says, “Hang on a minute,” and he runs off to the bathroom. He returns with a warm rag and cleans the mess off my stomach. I pull my pants up, and he snuggles next to me.

I love this boy. Everything he is doing should make me love him more, but all I can feel is guilt. I've broken all the rules.

“Are you angry?” he says, after I don't know how many minutes of silence. 

“Not at all,” I say. His question has made me feel more guilty. “Just thinking.”

“That's always been your problem. You think too much,” he says.

My instinct is to retort, _And you don't think enough_ , but there is no need for that.

Instead I say, “True.” 

I should kiss him. His lips, or his cheek, or his forehead. But I don't. 

I fall asleep with Simon beside me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously that was not very sexy. I think things will get sexier and easier between them over time.


End file.
